


For Love, For Glory

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Community: deancasbigbang, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 83,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the 1940’s, the war is tearing Europe in half, and the Nazis have a plan to uncover an ancient weapon belonging to the Egyptian gods that can tip the scale in their favor. With the help of a librarian named Castiel, it’s up to Sam and Dean Winchester, respectively a professor of archaeology and treasure hunter, to get to the Lost City of Amun-Ra and stop the Third Reich from achieving world domination. But with a missing father, secret societies, and an unexpected romance, things get more than a little complicated in this race against time. Loosely based on the Indiana Jones franchise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks go out to Elmie and Caitlin who are the world's best betas lbr. And Lucy! My amazingly talented artist who just blew my mind away. It's been such an honor! Be sure to stop by the [art masterpost](http://unbearable-bear.tumblr.com/post/66186055469/posting-day-my-art-for-the-dcbb-for-love-for) and leave her some love. ~ This fic was written for the [DeanCasBigBang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/), so be sure to check the [fic masterpost](http://bellanovaskies.livejournal.com/19758.html) on LJ for extra goodies.
> 
> Additional warnings for the fic include violence, mentions of torture, Nazis and controversial political views that are no way the views of the author.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                          **May 20th, 1943**

 

To the brothers Winchester:

 

Do receive my warmest greeting.

I regret that I should send this communication under such Dire circumstance, but I’m afraid your father left very specific instructions were the worst come to pass. Attached to this letter Is a package that contains valuable knowledge concerning John’s latest expedition. After a broad and meticulous examination of Its contents, it has finally been deemed safe for external scrutiny.

Please be prudent with the knowledge you have been given.

Your Father was last seen on the outskirts of Berlin, Germany circa the 24th of April, near a Naval command center. Our top priority is To keep his mission confidential from opposing parties, something we cannot ascertain if he is being kept prisoner behind enemy lines. This is of utmost Importance.

 

Your grandfather,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                H. Winchester                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             **M.O.L.**


	2. Chapter 2

“Tutankhamen,” Professor Samuel Winchester announces, cringing when the chalk grates against the chalkboard, “and his lost tomb have long been a subject of debate among the most brilliant of archeologists before my time. In fact, after twenty years of painstaking research, Jones was sure he had discovered where the pharaoh’s final resting place was. But, what’s the number one rule?”

“X never marks the spot,” the classroom answers in unison, emitting a handful of stifled yawns and tapping pens.

Nodding his head, the professor etches a large X over the drawn map, and encloses it in a circle. “X never marks the spot. If it looks easy, odds are you’re looking in the wrong place.”

And speaking of looking in the wrong place, the professor stops talking in favor of looking in the direction that most of his students seem to be looking. The giggles and dreamy sighs are all telltale signs he knows well, but he’s still surprised at the sight of his brother waving at him through the window on the door. He gives him a withering look he hopes conveys the level of irritation he’s feeling at being interrupted in the middle of a lecture, but his brother holds up a tiny package and shrugs.

“Uh, fine then. We’ll leave this here for the time being,” Sam says to his class, before turning to open the classroom door when the shuffling sound of students gathering their things becomes too loud to think. “I want you all to read up on Richardson, chapter ten!”

He stands by and watches them all file out, nodding uncomfortably when several of the women wink at him. One of them leaves an apple at his desk. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam notices his brother grin at the girls, but all they do is scoff and hurry into the hallway.

“Full house?”

“Tell me what’s so important that it couldn’t wait until the lecture was over? Ten minutes, Dean, that’s it. Couldn’t you wait twenty more minutes?” Sam grabs the eraser and turns his back to Dean, cleaning up today’s detailed image of the Valley of the Kings.

“Priorities,” Dean answers simply, and drops a small beige package onto Sam’s desk, sending papers fluttering and pens rolling to the floor. “I stopped by your office to wait for you, and when I got there I saw a strange fella in black walking out the door. I thought you were inside, but when I turned to ask him where you were, he was gone. Just like that. I found this on your desk.”

Sam frowns at the tightness in Dean’s words. “What is it?”

“See for yourself.”

Taking off his suit jacket, Sam drapes it over his chair and reaches for the small bundle of wrinkled paper. He takes a seat while he carefully peels away whatever Dean didn’t tear to shreds. What he finds is unexpected. 

“Dad’s journal?”

“Apparently. Came with this attached to it,” Dean says, and hands over an envelope. “Signed by your favorite grandpa.”

“He’s your grandfather, too,” Sam counters with a quiet laugh.

The wrinkling paper sounds grating in the silence of the big classroom, accompanied only by the constant tap of Dean’s shoes against the wooden floor. Dust motes float in the orange beams of sun that come through the old windows, making Sam turn away from the glare that bounces off the bronze bowl he brought in today, as an example of materials used during ancient religious rituals.

His brow furrows as he reads the typed letter, running a hand across his mouth when he comes across the signature. He puts down the letter with a shake of his head, in disbelief of what he just read. “What does M.O.L. stand for?”

“No idea. I thought that might ring some sort of bell for you, Professor Sammy.” The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches as he says it, but the would-be smile fades as he clears his throat. “So Dad is missing, and _grandpa_ wants us to go find him. Doesn’t that sound fishy to you?”

Sam looks up at Dean, puzzled. “What makes you think that?”

Dean does grin this time, as he leans over to pluck a pen from the decorative coffee mug Sam keeps on his desk. He’s got the gleam in his eye that tells Sam he’s clearly up to something, and Sam can’t help but shift in his seat, a slow smile spreading across his face. “What is it, Dean?”

“It’s a code. A sloppy one if you stop and think about it, but I think Henry was in a hurry when he typed up the letter. Look.” Dean leans over the desk so that he can see.

Sam watches attentively as his brother circles every capital letter on the document, including the displaced ones he hadn’t caught when he read it the first time. Dean then writes them on the margins of the letter. “An anagram.”

“Just take out the ones that are used correctly and…” In the messy handwriting that belongs only to Sam’s brother, Dean rearranges the letters until he spells out two very simple words that make Sam snort in disbelief.

**FIND IT**

“I see what you mean by sloppy. It’s like he didn’t even try to be discreet,” Sam says.

“Well, _you_ didn’t notice.”

John served in the war and for someone to get the jump on him would prove no easy task. Something about the situation doesn’t settle well as Sam churns the information over in his head. Aside from that, Grandpa Henry rarely communicated with anyone outside his innermost circle. Sam is starting to see why Dean doubts the legitimacy of the communication.

“What do you propose we do, then?” Sam asks. His fingers fiddle with the leather cover of the journal, but he doesn’t open it. “The semester still isn’t over. I can’t just hop on a plane and fly on over to Germany.”

“You couldn’t even if you wanted to. If you need to get into Germany, you’re going to have to do it by train, or car,” Dean says, and pointedly looks down at the bomber jacket Sam purchased for him just last week. With the war in full swing, it increases the difficulty of the impromptu mission.

There’s a knock on the door that startles them both, sending Dean back up to his feet, while Sam sits a little straighter in his seat. He swivels the chair towards the door, but also stands when he sees an unfamiliar man standing just outside the classroom.

“I can guarantee you safe passage,” the man says.

Sam subtly moves closer to Dean.

The man’s accent had sounded thick and curling. His dark hair has been slicked to the side, and small, round glasses are perched on his nose, hiding away fair-colored eyes. Not all Germans are Nazis, Sam thinks rationally, but he knows Dean far too well that he can sense rather than feel him tensing up beside him. The long, dark coat and black gloves the man wears doesn’t ease his mind.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean bites out defensively, and seems to be unfazed by the steadying glare Sam gives him.

“Eckhart,” the man says, finally stepping into the classroom and reaching out his hand. “I’m here on behalf of Henry Winchester.”

Before Dean can react, Sam is moving towards the man, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Forgive my brother, he’s been having a rough day, it would seem.” Behind him, Dean scoffs.

Eckhart nods stiffly, and doesn’t bother offering a polite greeting. “You must be Professor Winchester.”

“Call me Sam. This here is Dean.”

Dean salutes him, but Eckhart doesn’t spare him a glance.

“Right, the pleasure’s all mine,” Dean says dryly. “Why is it that you’re here, instead of Henry?” 

Sam winces at Dean’s tone, but he knows that once his brother is on the defensive, there’s no stopping him. Dean is going to get to the bottom of it, and there will be no little brother or manners to stop him. With that in mind, Sam steps back and lets Dean do the talking.

“I’m afraid your grandfather has far more urgent issues at hand that he needs to see to personally.”

“Oh, like his son being held as a prisoner of war isn’t important?” Dean is barely containing his indoor voice as he strides up to Eckhart, staring him dead in the eye. Sam can see his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. “Well, you can tell Henry that he’s a lousy excuse for a father, and that he has no right to demand that his grandkids fix his damn problems.”

Eckhart looks disgusted as he turns his face away and grabs a handkerchief from inside his coat. Sam tries not to laugh when the man dabs it against his nose. The odds that Dean’s breath smells of whiskey are pretty high, even if the clock is just barely striking noon.

“Your familial problems are none of my concern, Mr. Winchester. I am here to deliver a message and that I shall do,” Eckhart says before sidestepping Dean in order to face Sam. “Our organization acknowledges you as the best archaeologist of our era, Professor. If anyone is to know the last possible whereabouts of John, we trust it to be you. Are you familiar with his research?”

There’s something in the way Eckhart asks the question that makes Sam uneasy. It almost sounds demanding, and judging by the miniscule shift of Dean’s head, Sam knows he isn’t the only one who noticed it.

With a polite smile, Sam answers, “No, sir, I’m afraid not. My father and I haven’t been in contact for several years.”

Eckhart does not look convinced, but he pulls out a leather envelope from his coat pocket nonetheless. “Then your journey will be a long one. I’ve arranged with the Dean of Faculty for a substitute during your absence. All expenses will be paid in full by our organization—”

“There’s only one ticket in here,” Sam interrupts after having gone through the papers.

“I’m sorry?”

“If you want me to go anywhere, I’m going to need two of everything.”

The muscles of Eckhart’s jaw clench, his already foul expression turning into something stormy. Sam could swear the man’s cheeks turn a bright red. “Why?”

“Because,” Dean says, and claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We come in twos.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Adjusting his bow tie, Sam gives Dean a crooked smile. “We’re a team, Mr. Eckhart. You see, I find the object in theory, and Dean does the actual hunting. Our system hasn’t failed us yet.”

The idea of doubling expenses seems to turn bitter in Eckhart’s mouth, but he doesn’t protest. Maybe because the money isn’t directly coming out of his pocket, but Sam cares little to nothing. He isn’t going anywhere without Dean, and that’s final.

“Your plane leaves at six o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll have your extra ticket then.”

“Plane? Did he say plane?”

Sam ignores Dean. “Lastly, I want to know if I can trust you.”

The bell goes off overhead and the sound of students milling along the hallway drowns out the clock ticking above Sam’s chalkboard. 

Tenseness settles between all three of them. Sam is ready to back down, but John is missing, and if they don’t go and look for him, then who will?

Eckhart smiles, then, small and secretive, and not the least bit trustworthy. “It would be wise if you trusted no one along your journey, Professor.” At least he was honest.

Carefully, Eckhart removes a ring from his gloved hand. Its top is flat, round, and carries a strangely shaped star carved into the gold. Along the band are black and faded and intricate markings that resemble twisting vines. The bottom of the ring is flat, probably due to long years of tapping fingers against a table. When it’s dropped onto his palm, Sam immediately recognizes it as Henry’s ring.

Sam gives the man a nod before passing the ring to Dean. “Six o’ clock.”

“You’ll have a driver escort you to the airport twenty minutes before your departure. It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen.” Inclining his head, Eckhart’s barely-visible smile widens a fraction of an inch. “Godspeed.” And with that, he leaves.

“Well?” Dean prods, turning to Sam with an unimpressed look.

Sam answers it with a sigh. “Jessica is going to kill me.”

❖

Jessica nearly kills him.

Dean has to hide his laughter behind a coat he’s folding as he stands over his luggage, packing the essentials he’ll need for a trip which he has no idea how long will take. He has four pairs of slacks, three shirts, two coats, an extra pair of boots, and a fancy three-piece suit Sam insists he take.

Instead of lingering on the fact that they’ll arrive in Germany _by airplane_ , Dean focuses on Jessica’s ongoing rant as she paces back and forth across Sam’s living room floor. Her tiny heels make a rhythmic _clack-clack-clack_ that allows Dean to hum a tune. It’s almost hypnotic.

“You are insane. The both of you are. Of all places!”

“We’ve faced worse,” Sam says as he tries to assuage her fears. “Remember when I told you about the Hobitos?”

“Sam’s right,” Dean throws over his shoulder, slamming the lid of his luggage shut before turning around and sitting on it. “Nothing will ever beat the cannibalistic tribes of South America.”

“They weren’t cannibals, Dean,” Sam says, and frowns disapprovingly. “They were a warrior tribe who didn’t take well to strangers.”

“And chased you with poisoned darts because you stole their golden deity,” Jessica finishes, but there’s a slight curl to thin lips.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders how Sam even managed to woo such a dazzling woman. She is way too much for him, but Dean’s happy for his not-so-little brother. He can’t help the grin that bursts on his face when Sam leans in to press a kiss to Jessica’s cheek.

Dean heads into the kitchen to give them a moment of privacy. He grabs three wine glasses from the cabinet and a bottle of champagne Sam has kept hidden for years, in case of a special occasion. The original plan had been to save it for whoever got married first, but Dean figures that after this journey has come to an end, they’ll have enough to buy an entire cellar of the most expensive booze in all of America.

Because John has found the missing clue.

On the last page of his journal, the word Munich stood out, underlined several times. Dean wasn’t expecting a detailed map of the find; he knew more than anyone that John wasn’t trusting when it came to sharing information. He’d write the clues down, but the more important stuff he’d keep in his head. Never leave a strategy where the enemy can see. 

This also means that their trip will take longer than any expedition Dean has ever been on before, because he and Sam are going to have to piece the clues together themselves.

With the bottle pinned under his arm, Dean is glad to see that Sam and Jessica are a decent space apart. He doesn’t remark on her dabbing tears from her eyes with Sam’s handkerchief. 

“I think this calls for a toast,” Dean says, setting the glasses and bottle down on the small table.

Sam chuckles and moves over to the gramophone, setting for the sweet tones of Vera Lynn’s voice to fill the air in celebration. “I thought we weren’t supposed to open that, see who won.”

Dean shrugs and pops the cork, making Jessica squeal when the pop startles her. “It’s obvious who the winner is, Sammy,” Dean says, bursting with so much pride he thinks his chest is about ready to cave in on itself.

Jessica does the honors of serving their drinks. “What shall we toast to, gentlemen?”

“To the lovebirds,” Dean says, raising his bubbling glass with a solemn but comical expression.

“To the greatest find since the Rosetta Stone,” Sam adds; he laughs when Jessica jabs him on the ribs.

“To you boys coming back safe and sound,” she says, gracing them both with a smile that could win any man’s heart.

Their glasses chink.

Jessica leaves shortly after, leaving the brothers to their packing and last-minute preparations.

“Why can’t we take a boat? I’ve done it a million times, Sam. Transatlantic cruises are the past, present and future of travel.” Dean’s voice is measured and tight, meant to come off as casual, but he knows Sam can pick up on his distress.

“U-boats, Dean,” says Sam, trying to be patient with his brother’s fear of flying. “Besides, we can’t dock in England, and detouring to Spain will delay us more than a week.”

“But we can fly into England just fine, can we?” Dean slams his fedora on top of his luggage as he sets it by the door. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

“No, _Dean_ , it’s not. The Royal Air Force has better control over their skies; they’ll let us land in their territory. If it makes you feel better, we’ll take a boat to France, and then we’ll take the train into Munich. Less air time.”

“No, it _doesn’t_ make me feel better!” Dean nearly yells out the words, and Sam has to stop what he’s doing to look over at his brother. “Dad’s missing, we’re dive-bombing into a Nazi hotspot… We don’t even know if he found what he was looking for. What if we go all that way for nothing, huh? What then? What if it’s a trap?”

Sam doesn’t hold back the sigh. “Is this about Lisa?”

Dean blinks, taken aback. “What are you, deaf?”

“It is, isn’t it?”

Dean heaves a breath and turns to face the living room window. Outside, the sun is already setting, bathing the lawn and bushes in an orange light. His automobile gleams in the sunlight, and behind it, he can see the neighbors walking down the street, holding hands. It’s a quiet neighborhood; homely and safe.

He doesn’t want to talk about Lisa, about what could have been. Sam’s wrong, because this isn’t about her. This is about Sam and Jessica, about what Sam’s leaving behind in order to go adventuring with his big brother. This is about Dean’s legitimate fear of flying, and the deeper fear of losing his father. This is about Dean being selfish and not going by himself, instead he’s dragging Sam into danger once more when he should stay here, in his comfortable little home, teaching in his quaint little classroom at a prestigious university.

“Lisa and I called it quits a few months ago,” Dean confesses. He can see Sam’s reflection on the window in front of him, and he closes his eyes at the disappointment he sees there.

“You’ve been gone almost three months,” Sam says.

“I needed a break.”

“Dean—”

“Sam, I’m as sober as can be, and I’m not in trouble with the law. Let’s just…” Dean stops to clear his throat, and then turns with a smile with a determined nod. “Let’s focus on the task at hand, shall we? It’s been years since we’ve gotten something this big on our plates.”

There’s a short moment of awkward silence, but Sam eventually drops it and nods his head, moving over to stop the gramophone. “You, uh, think he actually found them?”

Dean sits back on the couch, finally deeming himself set for the trip. “The tablets? I’m not even sure that’s what he went looking for, but who knows? I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

Worrying his lower lip, Sam combs back the long hair that insists on flopping into his eyes. He stands in the middle of the room, looking far too old for his age when he finally asks, “Why would you think this is a trap?”

“Call it a hunch; I just don’t trust the guy,” Dean says. Henry’s ring means nothing; for all Dean knows, the old man is probably dead and rotting away behind the doors of his exclusive book club. The fact that Dean is prejudiced also plays a part, but he’d rather not annoy Sam with his ‘bigoted ways’. “We play things close to the vest from now on. I’m only going to say this once: no sharing information unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’ve gotten jumped by enough treasure hunters to play nice with some chum.”

Taking the set of neatly folded maps from the table, Sam slips them into his satchel, along with a compass and their father’s journal. “Of all people, I should know the value of information, Dean.”

“You’ve lived a sheltered life, kid. You don’t know the horrors of the real world, when a wise guy crowds you in a dark alley—”

“You’re quoting a film,” Sam says while rolling his eyes.

“Am not,” Dean says defensively, crossing his arms and huffing indignantly.

“You aren’t the only one who goes to the cinema.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Are we done here? I’d like to get some shut-eye before we hit Europe tomorrow.”

Humming to himself, Sam looks around his impeccably organized living room. Impeccable by Dean’s standards, anyways. Knowing Sam, he’d probably be stressed by the handful of books strewn over the couch.

“I think we can call it a night, sure.”

Yawning dramatically , Dean stretches out on the sofa and makes himself comfortable, propping his head on a pillow. “Shut the light on the way out.”

Sam snorts. “Wouldn’t you prefer your bed? God knows when the next time you’ll have a mattress under you will be.”

Dean waves him off. “I’m good, Sammy. You go tend to that glorious mane of yours and turn in.” Resting an arm over his eyes, Dean listens as Sam waddles across the floor for a few more minutes – perhaps picking what books he’ll bring for the sake of entertainment – before shutting the light off.

When he hears the bedroom door click shut, Dean sits up, rubbing the corner of his eyes. He’s tired, but he knows sleep will elude him until the wee hours of the morning. Sleeping on the airplane might prove to be more effective, but he snorts just as soon as the thought emerges.

The sky is still tinged a bruised purple, telling him that the sun isn’t that far away from the horizon just yet. It’s still early, not even seven in the evening, and he can hear Sam restlessly walking around his bedroom. No one is going to get any sleep tonight, that much is obvious.

Getting up from the couch, Dean quietly sneaks outside for a breath of fresh air. The living room smells faintly of Jessica’s perfume, and while pleasant, he’d rather not wallow in the thought of company he doesn’t have.

The heat of the day still radiates from the concrete sidewalks of Sam’s humble house, and Dean can feel it seeping in through the cotton of his black slacks. Lights filter out of the neighbors’ homes, curtains drawn but shadows dancing around tell him stories of the families that have turned in for the night. The tree in Sam’s front lawn sways in the soft breeze, pink petals of early blooms drifting dreamily onto the freshly mowed grass.

It’s a little slice of paradise under the Massachusetts sky.

Dean wonders when – if ever – he’ll manage to get himself a place like this, or his own Jessica with a brilliant smile and equally brilliant eyes.

He’d sure like that.

Maybe she’d like adventures too, and wouldn’t mind getting chased by crazy natives or surprised by snakes and spiders. Dean pictures his other-half as not exactly a wife, but a companion that would rather accompany him on his expeditions, rather than stay at home and bake him a pie. That’s not to say that he minds someone who could bake a pie, but that’s beside the point.

“If you want to talk about it,” Sam says from the door, “I’m right here.”

Dean isn’t at all startled by the sudden breach of silence, and he turns his eyes skyward, where he can finally see the first twinkle of scarce stars here and there. “Nah, I’m good.” Trust Sam to pry for an emotional reunion. “Just needed some fresh air.”

Sam steps outside, leaving the door open behind him as he comes to stand by Dean’s side. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get much sleep tonight,” he says, stating the obvious. “It’s too noisy out.”

Not a single cricket can be heard, but Dean understands what he means. One’s own head can make far more noise than any busy street. “That makes two of us.”

They stand is silent companionship, until the night chill begins to set in. When the crickets finally do start to chirp, Sam interrupts the peaceable quiet. “ _Casablanca_ is playing at the cinema in town. If we hurry, I think we can make the nine o’clock showing.”

Dean considers it for a brief moment, before deciding that whether he stayed in or not, he wasn’t going to catch a wink of sleep; might as well bask in some good old American entertainment. Maybe Ingrid Bergman’s pretty face will give him a hint of good luck before he leaves, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll find his own romance to remember overseas.

“I’ll get my coat.”

❖

Dawn finds both Winchesters in the living room, with Sam curled on the loveseat, feet hanging off the armrest and snoring softly as the first rays of sunlight seep through the open curtains.

Dean makes his rounds before waking him, taking a moment to relieve himself from all the beer he had a few hours earlier when they hit a bar after the film ended. He hums a song as he washes his hands and brushes his teeth; he runs a comb through his hair to set his honeyed locks into place. He looks halfway presentable, but he can’t do better than that.

Walking into the kitchen, Dean prepares two cups of coffee, and doesn’t bother spiking his own. He pokes and tweaks things that are still out of place: a few unwashed dishes, a discarded tie strewn over a chair, a dust bunny beside the stove—because who knows when they will be back, or in what condition they’ll find themselves once they do. Perhaps that’s John’s military upbringing pushing him on, but Dean doesn’t question it. Having things organized is never a bad thing.

The clock is close to striking five when he finally barges back into the living room, nudging Sam’s hanging arm with his foot. “Rise and shine, Dopey. We’re outta here in thirty.”

Sam grumbles against the pillow he’s currently drooling on, determined to not pay attention to Dean’s foot that is still kicking him hard enough to probably be annoying. “Leave me alone,” Dean hears him say, although it sounds more like _m’ve me amone_.

“Fine, you deal with Eckhart’s snooty face once he gets here and finds you sleeping still. Not my problem.”

Dean sets the mugs on the table between both couches and quickly slips into the spare bedroom he calls his own to change his shirt. The current one he’s wearing smells of cigar smoke and cheap perfume, two smells he’d rather travel without. Not bothering to dump it into the dirty laundry, he leaves it folded in half on top of his bed. He briefly debates on whether he should use suspenders or not, and puts them on once he remembers that he didn’t pack any last night.

He scratches at his nose as he gives the room one last onceover, taking in the faded flag pinned to the wall, the stack of records beside his bed, and the new bomber jacket hanging from the bedpost. It isn’t like it’s the first time he’s ever been away from his not-home, but there’s always this sense of what-if when the morning comes, when he has to jump on a boat or a train and leave to some exotic land. On impulse, he grabs the jacket and closes the door behind him.

Sam is sitting on the ledge of the couch, gangly limbs spread out all over as he blows swirls of steam from his mug. He looks like a mess, with dark circles under his eyes and pale cheeks. Dean hopes he doesn’t come down with something, after getting rained on during their walk back last night.

“Morning,” Sam mumbles, scratching at his cheek as he yawns loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“Glad to see you finally decided to join the world of the living,” Dean says, by form of greeting.

Sam mumbles something unintelligible and sits back to enjoy his coffee; it takes him at least three more cups to wake up. Once he’s coherent enough to walk around without falling over, Dean turns to leaf through yesterday’s newspaper, allowing him some time to get those last minute preparations done before they leave.

As expected, a burgundy Cadillac pulls up in front of Sam’s driveway at twenty minutes to six.

Neither Winchester speaks as two men in black load their luggage into the back of the car, nor does either mention the small arsenal of guns they smuggled between their three piece suits and dog-eared maps.

The drive, too, is quiet and tense.

Dean refrains from shifting uncomfortably every time the men upfront exchange brief words he can’t quite catch. Their accent is far too thick, and if the tensing of Sam’s jaw is anything to go by, he isn’t the least bit at ease himself. It’s the longest twenty minutes of their life, and Dean never thought he’d live to see the day where the sight of an airplane inspired such relief.

Haverhill Riverside Airport is the thing of nightmares, Dean immediately concludes. All it consists of is a tiny communications building and a wasted tarmac that disappears into a neighboring forest. The cyclone fence hangs bent and rusted, and several chickens cluck and strut their way across the land.

A metal capsule stands sad and lonely on the strip, swaying and groaning whenever a feeble gust of wind swirls through the trees.

“I’m swimming.”

“Dean,” Sam warns, gripping Dean by his elbow as their drivers unload their luggage. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“Safe? I don’t think we’re looking at the same thing here. Look at it, Sam! That thing is a deathtrap on wings!” Dean turns away with a hand over his mouth, trying to take a moment to breathe in calm and sereneness, and not puke those donuts they’d had on the way. “Oh God.”

“Gentlemen.” Dean groans at the sound of Eckhart’s voice, not needing another excuse to be sick. “I am glad you decided to take the trip.”

“Trust me,” Dean says, straightening up and clearing his throat. It is sheer willpower that keeps him from throwing up. “Not like we had a choice.”

“Your father must be proud of having raised such honorable men,” Eckhart says, beady eyes hidden behind the glare of the morning sun against his glasses. He’s smiling, too, something that makes Dean undoubtedly uneasy. “Here are your extra tickets.”

Sam takes the bundle of papers – probably to give Dean a chance to compose himself – and shuffles through them. He seems satisfied with what he finds there, because he slips them into the pocket inside his jacket. “Thank you, Herr Eckhart,” Sam says, offering his most brilliant and respectful grin that borders on sarcastic.

Beside him, Dean chokes back a laugh, disguising it as a cough. Eckhart’s smile twitches, and it’s the final nail on the coffin. There’s something else going on, as both already suspected, but both brothers keep on professional smiles.

“Have a pleasant trip,” Eckhart says with a hint of measured annoyance.

“Will do,” Dean says, tipping his fedora with a flourish. “Shall we, Sammy?”

Sam fiddles with his bow tie, something Dean recognizes as being a nervous tic of his, before nodding his head and slipping his hands into his pockets. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

There’s something soothing about the knowledge that Dean isn’t the only one on edge, be it because of the airplane, the journey, or their sponsors in general. At least he isn’t alone this time around, and Dean feels like he can face giants standing by Sam’s side. Together, the Winchester brothers are an unstoppable force, and the thought makes Dean hum with peace.

The pilot – a short and burly man who seems to be running on high blood pressure, judging by the unhealthy red tinge of his cheeks – pushes the rolling ladder up to the small airplane, with the help of two boys at least half of Sam’s age; the pilot’s nephews, most likely.

“After you,” Dean says, gesturing Sam towards the rickety ladder.

With the sun heating up that late spring morning, and not a single cloud in the sky, Dean thinks that it’s a good day to travel, despite the wreck he’s about to board. He waits until Sam’s gigantic body tucks its way inside before Dean takes that first step, then another, and another. Baby steps, he tells himself, before ducking his head and stepping into the cabin.


	3. Chapter 3

_British airspace. Nine hours after departure._

Sam tries to shake Dean awake, and when that fails, he holds a bottle of alcohol under his nose. He’s still not sure what caused Dean to pass out, if it was panic or sheer exhaustion, but Sam is glad that he spent the entire flight in peace. He figures waking Dean up would be better once they land, but with the title of ‘little brother’ comes responsibilities, and some of them included making ‘big brother’s’ life a bit miserable, all in good fun.

When Dean does wake up, he threatens to throw Sam out the emergency exit.

_Dover Military Airfield. Eleven hours after departure._

Sam is forced to jab his elbow into Dean’s ribs when his eyes start to wander. His brother’s interests are something he’s long come to accept, but he can’t risk Dean gallivanting with uniformed RAF soldiers, not when they are running on such a tight schedule.

“Dean, focus,” Sam says, bodily guiding Dean to their cab.

“I _am_ focusing,” Dean says with a mischievous curl to his words, just as he throws his most charming smile in some nondescript direction.

Sam quickens his pace.

The boat that will take them to France is already waiting for them at the harbor, and it is just as dilapidated as the airplane they flew in on. It’s tiny and rusted, the word _Achéron_ long faded into the yellowing finish of the starboard side. 

Sam tries to reassure himself that it’s only a thirty-minute voyage to Calais.

_Calais, France. Eleven hours and fifteen minutes after departure._

Sam returns his lunch to the Dover Channel, gripping the side of the boat and hurling with so much strength he fears he’ll chuck up his stomach lining in the process. Meanwhile, Dean rummages the canteen in order to get a glass of water and a lemon to ease Sam’s nausea.

“I’m not pregnant,” Sam grits, fixing Dean with a watery-eyed glare.

“You could have fooled me.” With that, Dean pushes his own handkerchief into Sam’s clammy hand.

_Paris, France. Thirteen hours after departure._

Dean wonders why they couldn’t have stayed at a hotel for the night. His back aches, he’s hungry, and his feet hurt enough to make him limp until he drops himself onto the booth of their shared train cabin. It’s small and stuffy; the window’s ledges are lined with soot that speaks of weeks without seeing any kind of maintenance. The carpet is stained with what looks like grease and something else Dean won’t bother to identify.

“To think that they would arrange better transportation,” Sam mutters as he stashes his luggage in the overhead compartment. He’s tired, and Sam always gets cranky when he’s tired, just like a 5-year-old.

It’s a nine-hour train ride to Delémont, where they will meet the driver that will take them all the way to Munich. Neither of them are considerably happy about having to travel so long in a cabin that smells like damp dog.

“At least we can sleep all the way there,” Dean says. He double-checks the lock on the door and pulls down the roller shade, fastening it to the strap of his duffle bag when it refuses to stay down.

Sam hums his response.

There’s a spring that insists on burying itself into Dean’s back when he lies down and tries to make himself comfortable, and it takes him several minutes of tossing and turning before giving up. He considers sleeping on the floor, but the stains are looking back at him with a mocking singsong that threatens to give him the clap.

Unable to sleep off his fatigue, Dean turns to deal with his next urging problem: his rumbling stomach.

“We just bought those,” Sam says, from his place beside the window. He has John’s journal perched on his lap, now, seemingly attempting to decipher what it is they’re supposed to be looking for. “Leave at least half for later.”

“I’ll get something from the cart later.”

“Yeah, sure. Like you’ll sit there and stomach French food.”

“I’m hungry. I’m a warrior, and warriors need fuel,” Dean says, waving his hand around as if it would help his slow-minded brother understand just how serious a situation it is. “If I have a sandwich within reaching distance, then I’ll eat it. Carpe diem and all that jazz.”

With a triumphant chuckle, Dean pulls out the bundled snack and sits on the farthest edge of the booth, where the spring won’t dig into his ass. Cheese, ham, salami, mayo; it’s been squashed under the heavy layers of maps and books, but Dean doesn’t mind as long as it’s edible. The Swiss cheese is a little sour.

“So, what have you got?”

Sam frowns at the papers he has strewn over his lap, a pen pinched between his teeth as he leafs through the pages of John’s weathered journal. The gap between his eyes is furrowed in deep concentration, and the corners of his mouth are downturned into a pensive frown. Those are all telltale points of Sam having found nothing, but Dean had felt like asking anyway.

“Uh,” Sam starts, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. “Beside Tutankhamen’s tomb, I’ve got nothing.”

“Come on, there’s gotta be something. The Ark of the Covenant? Hell, I’ll even take the Holy Grail at this point.”

Blowing out a sigh, Sam taps his pen against his knee. “Unless the words ‘umm mawagir’ make any sense to you? Hamunaptra? That one I know; it’s in India, but—”

“Why would he be in Germany?” Dean says with a nod, wiping a glob of mayo from the corner of his mouth.

“Other than that, all we’ve got are doodles. It isn’t Egyptian or Sumerian; I’ve never seen these before.”

“You mean like hieroglyphs?”

“Not quite,” says Sam, squinting at the journal’s pages. “These don’t look like any logograms I’ve ever seen.”

Dean is stunned, and he finds Sam’s admission hard to believe. 

Since he was a kid, Sam devoured any book that was given to him, regardless of the subject. When John began his adventuring after coming across several clay tablets of possible Norwegian origin in Canada, little Sammy took a special sort of interest in history. With John on the road, Dean could barely afford to keep food on the table, so he’d steal books from the local bookshops in order to keep Sam entertained. Since the age of seven, Sam had been reading up on pretty complicated subjects of archeology and ancient civilizations.

“Maybe you’re looking at it wrong.”

“They’re probably Celtic, though. Far older than anything the historical community has come across. Perfectly symmetric, so they can’t be random. There’s a pattern to them.”

A large piece of bread slowly makes its way down Dean’s gullet and he kicks himself for trying to take it dry. Coughing, he goes through his pack until he finds the complimentary bottle of wine they were given at customs and takes a swig directly from the bottle. Cringing at the bitter taste of it, he stuffs it back and longs for the burn of hard liquor back home. “I thought the French were supposed to be the connoisseurs of wine. This tastes like cow piss.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look up from the project in his hands. “You wouldn’t know class if it hit you in the face with a baseball bat.”

“Shut up.”

The train lurches forward, the sound of iron wheels grinding against the railroad tracks eclipsing its loud whistle. Everything inside the cabin creaks and groans, the compartment bars rattling against the bags Sam threw over them nearly twenty minutes ago.

Dean eventually lies down on the booth again, and tries to curl himself in a fashion that will keep him away from the insistent coil. He nearly falls off the booth while attempting to assume the fetal position, leaving the painful lump a few inches away from his hip. Flipping Sam off after he bursts out laughing, Dean sits up and settles with leaning against the window. 

The sun is still out, so he’ll wait until it disappears beneath the horizon before trying to catch some decent sleep.

_Develier, Switzerland. Twenty-one hours after departure._

“Are we there yet?”

“Shut up, Dean. I’m trying to sleep.”

_Delémont, Switzerland. Twenty-two hours after departure._

Nestled between tall, green mountains, is the quaint city of Delémont, with its red roofs and soothing smell of pine. It’s an Eden in the middle of war-torn Europe, where people smile just because the weather is nice and the wine is good.

Sam and Dean stroll down the main square like a couple of starry-eyed tourists taking in the colorful sights of the main plaza, where flags and banners hang, flying their town’s ancient emblems. Castles and dragons, angels and saints, all of them painted in the glass windows of the weathered buildings. The streets are bustling with nighttime activity, music and food wafting out windows and through the air, serving as delectable invitations that are too good to turn down.

“I feel like I slept on top of the coal cart,” Dean says, paying for a glazed bread roll that is begging to be tasted. “My back is screaming bloody murder.”

Raising his pint of beer to toast Dean’s own, Sam takes a seat on the ledge of the town fountain. He can’t look away from the stone mermaid that stands at the middle, a jar poised over her shoulder as water falls in a steady stream from it and into the pool. It wouldn’t be as disturbing if she didn’t have fangs and claws, making it look more like a siren rather than a mermaid, but maybe that was the whole point of the fountain. Perhaps it was a political statement, or perhaps someone really liked fanged mermaids.

“Look at it this way, Munich is just a few hours away. You can call in and spend the entire day sleeping at the hotel.”

“Munich is _nine_ hours away, Sam, nine does not qualify as a few.” Dean wipes the corner of his mouth, where sugar keeps accumulating with every bite he takes.

“It also leaves us with nine hours to get ready,” Sam says, smiling at a kid who waves at him from a distance. He waves back.

“Get to Munich, get in contact with Milton, do a quick reconnaissance, grab Dad, get out. We went through this like, what, ten times already? There’s nothing to get ready for. Nothing political going on, so why should we worry?”

Dean sounds exasperated, which is rich coming from the worrywart of the two, but Sam can’t help but list the amount of things that could go wrong. Their current plan of action sounds too easy, and Sam has been on enough expeditions to know things rarely go as planned. Situations can get messy in the blink of an eye, especially on enemy territory. “All I’m saying is we need a backup plan.”

“We have a backup plan. It’s called my military issue Browning Hi-Power, and it’s resting at the bottom of my duffel bag.” Dean beams at how ingenious he thinks he’s being. Sam can only roll his eyes. “If things get hairy, we shag ass out of there. Regroup closer to the Swiss-German border.”

“Really? How do you expect to get by border patrol?”

“The same way I always do, with a little Winchester magic. Don’t worry about your rep, Sam. No one cares when you’re in the middle of Europe fighting Nazis. No one at Harvard is going to know.” Finishing up his bread roll, Dean cleans his hands on his slacks and mutters under his breath when he leaves two hand stains behind.

“Not all Germans are Nazis, Dean,” Sam says with a snort, amused at seeing his brother fret over the syrupy blotches just over his thighs. “You’re going to make it worse if you keep rubbing it.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Whatever. It’s three hours until our driver gets here, so, any plans?”

“Well,” Dean says, suddenly straightening up and current distress forgotten. He beams as he casts a look around, straightening out his suit jacket. “Three hours seems like more than enough for makin’ whoopee, don’t ya’ think?”

Sam’s face melts away into a scowl as he stands up, turning his back to Dean. “You are disgusting.” He goes up to the counter where they picked up their snacks to return their pint glasses, and wishes the clerk a good night before turning back to Dean. “Good luck finding anyone willing with those,” Sam says, gesturing towards Dean’s pants with a flourish.

Dean shrugs. “Not like they’re staying on. Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you and your gross existence,” Sam calls back, already halfway down the plaza, closer to the better-lit areas where a few shops are still open.

“Aw, come on. Don’t be a baby. You can’t possibly tell me you haven’t broken out the champagne with Jessica.” Dean has to jog to catch up with Sam.

“I’ll have you know that we both decided to wait until our wedding night; just like it’s supposed to be.”

Sam smirks when Dean suddenly stops walking, but then grimaces when he hears, “Wow, I gotta admit your level of prudishness always exceeds my expectations.” Sam opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it.

They walk in companionable silence, and it’s only after a few minutes that Sam realizes that Dean hadn’t been serious about seeing someone tonight. He takes a moment to wonder the reasons behind that, if Dean is still pining over a love gone wrong, before he hears his brother gasp loud enough to stop him in his tracks. “What is it?”

He turns around when he doesn’t get an answer, and spots Dean’s back disappearing through two wooden doors. Surprised, Sam looks around to see what prompted the sudden change, worrying that there might be trouble trailing after them, but what he sees actually makes me laugh out loud.

_Jurassic Museum of Art and History_

Rolling his eyes, Sam follows him inside.

Sam whistles at the collection of stained glass windows displayed behind velvet ropes, fascinated by some of the dates etched onto the plaques. Some of them date back to the early sixteenth century, and that alone was impressive.

From dolls to clocks, medieval armor and swords, even an early Ford model—it’s a quaint little museum that paints a picturesque history. A massive chandelier chimes whenever someone opens the front doors, the wind moving the glass spades and making the light dance across the exhibits. The floor is made of polished marble, and Sam thinks it’s all very baroque. On the left wall are nearly two dozen paintings, and lining the right one are clay statues of women, mermaids and angels.

“What the hell is this?” Dean cries out, standing at the middle of the floor, glancing around as if he’s looking for something.

“It’s a museum, Dean,” Sam explains, holding out both his hands in a calming gesture, making sure to speak slowly and clearly.

“It’s says Jurassic,” Dean says, as if Sam doesn’t understand his distress. “I’m not sure what you see, but I’ll tell you what I _don’t_ see. _Dinosaurs_.”

“Dean,” says Sam, and hides his face behind his hand as he tries to stifle his laughter. “This is an art and history museum.”

“Then why the hell would it have ‘Jurassic’ on the name?!”

“Because Delémont is the capital of the Jura canton,” says a lady who walks up to them with a modest smile. Her hair is short and black, eyes blue and accent rich. She’s wearing a diamond necklace ostentatious enough to keep Dean’s eyes from going further south. “I’m Bela Talbot, and I’ll be your guide for the evening.”

Dean all but shoves Sam aside to shake hands with the woman whose face reminds Sam of the mermaid out in the fountain. She’s beautiful in an exotic kind of fashion, but maybe that’s her cockney accent pulling the illusion. Sam, for one, isn’t impressed. “We won’t be long, ma’am, I assure you. Don’t let us take up your time.”

“But we’ll be here for a couple of hours,” Dean quickly adds, lifting the offered hand and giving it a kiss. “Unlike my colleague, I’d love to see Switzerland’s most beautiful sights.”

“Charming,” Bela says, pulling a napkin out of her bosom and wiping the hand Dean kissed clean. “And what would be the names of you handsome Yanks?”

“Dean Smith, and this here is my associate Sam Wesson.”

Sam is relieved to hear that Dean has the mind to show some sort of semblance of common sense when faced with a woman of this caliber. Trust no one, and pretty guides with British accents are no exception.

“A pleasure,” she says, her words curling into an extravagant purr. “Now, do you believe in God, Mr. Smith?”

Dean does a double take at her question. “I’m… sorry?”

“Are you men of faith? If so, the window showcase would be a marvelous way to start our tour of the museum. Our vast collection dates back to 1500 AD, during the reign of the Tudors,” Bela says, calm and professional as she makes her way to the front of the exhibit, the tiny heels a clack-clack-clacking in a way that leaves Sam longing for home.

“I can’t say I’m much of a churchgoer,” Dean says, rapping his knuckles against a wooden stand that holds pamphlets for tourists. Tiny flags are printed on the corners, detailing the language it is translated to.

That much is true about Dean, Sam contemplates, and while he’s more inclined on taking a few things on faith – man of science or not – Dean was never that loyal a believer. Watching one’s mother die in a house fire, drunken brawls, a few broken bones, jail, and being homeless for the better part of ten years takes its toll on faith, and not only the kind that leads to God.

“The thing about faith, Misters, is that it can be an ironic little thing. When you least expect it, everything you know can and will change, leaving you standing on a platform with no possible escape, and then, then who or what will you turn to? In the end, the joke is on you,” Bela says, leaving them all waiting in a heavy silence.

Sam shuffles his feet, and tries to lessen the suddenly awkward moment.

“Well, what do you think?” she says then, raising her thin eyebrows. “Wrote that myself a few weeks ago. The curator says it’s a little too heavy for casual visitors, but I think it has just the right amount of ritzy.”

“Oh,” Sam somehow manages to laugh out, patting Dean on the shoulder as he continues to stare at one of the windows. “That’s, uh, that’s heavy all right.”

Bela looks disappointed, but her smile is back when she turns on her heels. “If churches aren’t your thing, then maybe contemporary art?”

Dean sets off behind her without hesitation, and all Sam can do is follow.

❖

They leave the museum shortly after, but not without Dean constantly complaining that they could have called it the _Delemontian_ Museum of Art and History, because Jurassic is far too misleading for poor American tourists with little knowledge of the Swiss highlands. Bela sheds some of her professionalism in favor of referring to Dean as ‘you American pickle’.

After a short walk along a circular stone path that takes them underneath the Jurassic Arch, they arrive at the Wegner knife factory, where both Sam and Dean have a blast when introduced to the modern mechanics of weapons manufacturing. Even if Sam is more of a diplomat, he does enjoy the safety in pocketing a good weapon, and an authentic Swiss pocketknife does the deed. Hell, he is sure it could take him months until he figures out what everything hidden beneath the red glossy hilt does.

“Blade, screwdriver, corkscrew, can opener, tweezers, nail file, scissors, a—a toothpick – this is as spiffy as it’s going to get,” Dean says, marveling at the travel-size contraption. “I’m surprised it doesn’t shoot, or have a light on it. Can you imagine?”

Sam pockets his own model, safe and easy to access. “A bulb would do the trick, yeah.”

“I really hate to cut this short,” Bela says, wagging her finger in front of their faces to bring their attention back to her. “I recall you saying having in appointment in three hours?”

“What time is it?” Sam says, heading outside and trying to spot the clock tower that towers over the main plaza. The moon is high and the city is now quiet, with only a few stray dogs meandering about for scraps.

“Twenty minutes to midnight,” Bela says, pointing at the clock above the doorway no one had noticed.

“Shit, Sam, we gotta hurry.” Dean seems to have forgotten his manners, but Bela doesn’t mind as she waves Sam off when he offers a quiet apology for his brother’s language.

“I’ve heard worse, Mr. Wesson. If you like, I can give you a han—”

“No,” they both answer in unison.

The woman blinks up in a moment of confusion, scoffing at their rudeness. “Suit yourself, gentlemen. Have a safe trip, and auf wiedersehen.” With a final tip of her head, her short hair swaying coyly in the mountainside breeze, she walks off into the night.

Neither of them stays long enough to find out where exactly she went off to. It’s a fifteen minute walk to their pickup point, and they have to gather their luggage from the storage center. 

Sam is relieved Bela gave up with a simple no, because it wouldn’t do for her to find out that they are both armed, yet were still going into the heart of the war with nothing but two fedoras as a shield.

“Last stretch of the trip,” Dean says eagerly, jogging all the way to the storage house with Sam just a few steps ahead. “I hope the hotel has down pillows.” And Sam can’t help but chuckle.

_Bregenz, Germany. Twenty-nine hours after departure._

Ever since they entered Austria, having to take an alternate route after a deluge took out one of the main roads, Dean has been up and sharp. Sam has long since gone out like a light, snoring loud enough to annoy the driver, and grunting whenever they fell into a pothole and he ended up smacking his head against the glass.

It’s raining outside when Dean finally sees the sign that reads _‘Willkommen in Deutschland’_.

Not a single tollbooth in sight. No soldiers guarding the border. Nothing but endless mountains and dark sky, briefly illuminated by bursts of lightning. Dean feels uneasy, like something is wrong, but he’s ready for anything that comes his way in such a confined space.

But the hours grow long and the road goes on with no traffic at all, just the quiet interrupted only by the car’s engine and the sound of his own thoughts.

_Munich, Germany. Thirty-two hours after departure._

A rainstorm welcomes the day in somber tones of gray, reminding Sam of the movies he enjoys so much. The scene before him plays out like one, with armed German soldiers welcoming them with brilliant smiles and polite handshakes, their English thick and heavily accented. There is another car waiting for them, a black and white Rolls Royce that is probably worth more than his entire education.

But most importantly, there isn’t a swastika in sight; not that he’s been expecting to be greeted by any, since the trip is being funded by an American organization, but there is always that nagging thought in the back of the head.

Sam tries explaining it to Dean in the simplest and briefest of ways, hoping that no one comes out of the argument offended. Dean takes to it, blessedly enough, even if he looks tense and tightlipped in the welcoming committee’s presence.

“Still not letting my guard down,” Dean says, needlessly, considering that Dean rarely ever does.

“All I’m saying is don’t do or say anything stupid.”

“When have I ever done or said anything stupid, huh?” Dean holds up a hand at the look on Sam’s face. “Don’t answer that.”

“First thing tomorrow,” Sam says instead, looking through a notepad he purchased back in France, “we need to contact Mr. Rochester at the library.”

“Rochester? I thought you said Milton.”

“Rochester, apparently, is the middle man. You can only get to Milton through him. Bodyguard, I’m guessing.”

“Guessing Milton is some sort of big cheese around these parts,” Dean says, stepping aside as two other men move their luggage from one car to the other. “You know what, right now, I can’t bring myself to give a damn. You can talk to me about treasure and mysterious individuals after I’ve snored my way through the Blitz.”

Sam cringes as he opens the car door. “Dean.”

“What?”

“That’s what I meant by saying something stupid.”

Dean pretends to think about it, but shrugs and climbs inside. “I’m tired, man. Thirty hours on the road takes a toll on you. I say we stop at a gin mill, take a few swigs and then call a lights out. I can’t afford to fall asleep on the job.”

Luxury car or not, the interior is far less comfortable than the Ford they just drove in on. It smells of cigar and leather, and Dean was soaked from head to toe. Dean was right. He was tired, hungry and felt overall miserable. “I’m going to have to agree to that, yeah.”

“And sadly, I’m going to have to alter that,” the driver says.

Both Sam and Dean turn to the man, but it’s Dean who speaks. “If you think your sister is a creature from the deep when she wakes up in the morning, trust me, you don’t want to see me when I haven’t had my beauty sleep, pal.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester, but there’s been a change of plans.”

“How do you know our name?” Sam says, scooting forward in his seat to get a better look at the driver. “I thought that was confidential.”

“Sit back, and act casual, or you’ll blow my cover. I’m here on Rochester’s behalf.”

Sam does as he’s told, and gives Dean a firm nod.

The car pulls out into the main road, rain sloshing heavily against the windshield. No one says a word until the soldiers are out of view, but Sam catches Dean’s whimper when they drive by the entrance with a sign that reads _The Ritz_.

“There was a security breach a few hours ago. We intercepted a message from the German forces saying that you two would be arriving in a matter of hours,” the driver says, speeding up the car. There’s a collective harrumph when he takes a sharp turn, and the rolling valleys quickly morph into tall buildings and plenty of traffic.

Sam thinks about it, and he’s sure Dean has arrived to the same conclusion. “So this is definitely bigger than we thought.”

“I’m afraid so. We still don’t know who is behind this, or what they want, but Rochester fears they’re now one step ahead of us. If I drop you off at your hotel, God knows what will be awaiting you.”

“I told you!” Dean says, jabbing his finger into Sam’s arm. “I told you this was going to get hairy.” He sits back and sighs, taking off his wet hat to run a hand through his hair. “And not to be rude, but you sound like you should be a couple thousand miles away from this place.”

The driver snorts at that. “If anybody asks, I’m your Romanian driver named Aaron.”

“Is that even your real name?”

The driver looks at the rearview mirror for a brief moment, catches Dean’s eye and gives him a wink. “Just call me Aaron.”

Sam clears his throat. “Okay, so, uh, what’s the new plan? If there ever was one.”

“Rochester says you have something that’ll help our translator piece everything together; the sooner you can get to that, the better. Whatever these flat tires are after, it has to be big. They even have a team in Cairo by now.”

“Cairo?”

“That’s in Egypt,” Sam clarifies.

“No shit, Sam.”

“That certainly narrows it down, then,” Sam continues, his eyes focusing past the windshield. On the train, they had composed a list of possible artifacts John may have been after. Cairo rules out anything Celtic or Sumerian, but it does make the symbols in the journal far more enigmatic.

“Has there been any sign of John?” Dean says after a beat of tense silence.

“There’s been nothing on the air, no. I’m sorry.”

“He’s probably escaped by now – keeping a low profile. You know how he is,” Sam says, turning to offer Dean a reassuring smile. He knows Dean isn’t going to buy it, but he nods and turns to look out the window.


	4. Chapter 4

They arrive at the library fifteen minutes later, and Dean wishes there was a way to capture its beauty and store it away. Perhaps he can get himself a photograph. “It’s a castle,” he says, pointing at the ancient building while laughing in Sam’s direction. “It’s an actual castle.”

As Sam’s personal treasure hunter, Dean has been around the world. He’s seen caves carved by nature to look like a human skull, and he’s seen Hindu temples reclaimed by vines and bugs the size of his head. Dean has seen paper dragons and moose bigger than Sam, but he’s never come face to face with an honest to God castle. Stone spires and magnificent arches, stones worn with age creating a fortress that once stood against foreign invaders, with dragons that froze while climbing its walls. But above all, it looks so much like the castles his mother enjoyed drawing in her spare time.

“Welcome to HQ,” Aaron says, opening the trunk.

The rain has lessened to a drizzle, but there isn’t a break in the sky: an omen that the bad weather is going to continue throughout the day.

Dean watches Aaron head inside empty-handed, and turns to Sam who is slinging his bag across his shoulders and grabbing his additional luggage. “I’m guessing he isn’t really a chauffeur.” His shoes squeak against the wet cobblestone.

“Should have brought an umbrella,” Dean says, before grabbing his own stuff and heading inside.

The inside of the library is surprisingly hot, not to mention big, with a sprawling receiving area that breaks off into four hallways. Much like Delémont’s museum, suits of armor stand guard at the entrance of each one. Flags hang from each archway: one with a lion, the other a bird, one has a horse, and the fourth one an emblem comprised of two swords and a crown.

Stone floors are covered with thick red carpet, all the way up to the elevated center of the room, where Dean can see a series of long tables stacked with books and several lamps.

“Whoa,” Sam mutters, and Dean grins at how dewy his eyes look.

“Willkommen in Deutschland, Herr Winchester,” greets a man, roughly in his forties, but the way he saunters down the stairs with a raunchiness to behold says he still feels twenty. He’s wearing a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Dean half expects him to pull out a cigar at any given moment. “My name is Balthazar Rochester and I will be your host during your stay.”

He shakes both their hands with a look of exquisite boredom that makes Dean’s eye twitch. Some people Dean just doesn’t trust, but this man is a case all of his own.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam says, as polite as always.

“Same here,” is all Dean offers.

“Come along, and I’ll give you a tour of the place. You can leave your luggage right where it is, I’ll see that it is taken to your rooms,” Balthazar says, skipping back up the short flight of stairs. He looks over his shoulder once to check if they’re both keeping up with him. “Now, tell me, how was your trip?”

“Long,” Sam says.

“Stressful,” Dean adds, nearly dragging his feet as he makes his way up into the elevated floor at the center of the room.

“I am very sorry to hear that, as I’m also sorry for having to improvise on your accommodation plans. Did Aaron…?”

“Yes, he told us on our way here. I assume you have some information on what it is we’re to look for,” Sam says, using that tone he uses when he’s holding seminars on the Hellenic Pantheon. It usually means no-nonsense.

“They wouldn’t have sent for you otherwise.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The Men of Letters, of course. Who else? Didn’t your grandfather tell you?” Balthazar stops then, turns to face both of them with a steady stare. Dean catches a flicker of doubt in his blue eyes, tenseness in his brow that reeks of suspicion. “If you didn’t look so much like your father, I would have you arrested for spies. Tell me what you know.”

“We’ll tell you if you get us breakfast,” Dean says, stepping in before Sam can begin his long and winding rant. Forget the tour, his stomach is rumbling and he can’t keep running on a stale cup of coffee.

Balthazar looks down at Dean, as if something foul-smelling was being held beneath his nose. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Cassie isn’t here yet, so we can wait until our dear librarian decides to arrive to discuss this. Wait here.”

Dean and Sam stay behind at the center of the room, and are both amazed to see that what they had thought was a fourth hallway, is actually the library part of the castle. Endless upon endless rows of books line both sides of the passage, all of them lit by strategically placed lamps that reflect light off the gold-colored railings and bronze artifacts mounted on marble pedestals. At the very end, on the left side, is a spiral staircase.

Dean would have focused his attention on all of this, if it weren’t for a niggling question at the back of his head. “Milton’s a librarian?”

“And translator, apparently.”

Scratching at his neck, Dean idly notes that he’s in desperate need of a shave. “A librarian named Milton.”

“Dean,” Sam warns, clearly reading between the lines. “Would it kill you to act like a professional for once?”

“I am,” Dean says, holding up his hands with a chuckle. “I mean, pretty librarian sounds more like your card to play, but hey, if she looks anything like February’s Miss Stacy, well…” Aside from the fact that Dean once had a lady friend that went by the same name, he’s willing to become a charming devil. “I’m thinking red hair, green eyes, hmm? What do you say?”

“I say you’re gross, and that I’m happily engaged.”

“Yeah, yeah, you bluenose.”

❖

If there is one thing Germans got right, it’s their version of an American diner.

A half an hour later, and Dean has a stack of flapjacks, scrambled eggs, the crunchiest sausages to ever grace his mouth, seasoned potatoes and a pot full of coffee. Sam has shoved whatever professionalism he so desperately clings to into his pocket, and scoffs down his breakfast like a soldier. It’s delicious and hearty and hits the spot after a long journey.

The front doors open and close with a loud clang that goes unnoticed by all but Dean and Balthazar, judging by the way the Englishman leans over his chair and instantly gets up, nearly bounding across the floor and into the receiving area. Dean hears casual chatter, but it’s drowned out by the crunch of sausage.

“Dean, Sam – I’d like you to meet our dear librarian,” Balthazar says, still out of sight.

Sam rolls his eyes when Dean stands up and quickly wipes his mouth, but the frown quickly turns into a bout of laughter when the mysterious librarian finally comes into view.

In Dean’s defense, he is simply startled at being faced with something he was never expecting.

Cassie Milton is not a red haired librarian with green eyes. She isn’t even a woman.

The librarian introduces himself. “Castiel Milton, at your service,” and his voice is a deep reverberation in his chest.

Dean is left gaping for the slightest bit of a second, taking in the tousled dark hair that seems to have never been introduced to a comb. Behind a pair of small round glasses is a pair of rich blue eyes that could set the most brilliant of sapphires to shame. Dean’s eyes roam the expanse of barely-there stubble, chapped lips whose corners tip upward in a discreet but polite smile.

One second, and Dean thinks of every other man he’s deemed mildly attractive, and he wastes no time in concluding that this Castiel fellow is definitely something else. Heck, Dean can wager that none of his previous lady friends can compare.

“Dean,” he says, taking Castiel’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “Dean Winchester.” If his eyes linger, no one can really blame him, and it’s not like Castiel’s eyes don’t linger as well. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Sam,” Sam proclaims, loudly, as he pushes Dean out of the way to shake the man’s hand.

“The esteemed Professor Winchester,” Castiel says, his smile increasing in magnitude. “It is quite the honor, if I do say so.”

“Honor is all mine,” Sam says, and retakes his seat.

Dean continues to stand there, torn between feeling dejected at being snubbed, and feeling lightheaded at the stunning picture. He needs to keep his head, focus on the important matter at hand, but he’ll be damned if he can’t admire Castiel from afar. Dean’s no stranger to enjoying things he knows he can’t touch, but there’s no problem with sweetening the view.

“I hope you all haven’t started without me,” Castiel says, taking a seat across from Sam and beside Balthazar. “I’d hate for any of you to have to repeat yourselves.”

“Not at all, we were actually waiting for you.” Balthazar serves Castiel a cup of coffee. “As the ice breaker, I’ll inform you that these two are unaware of the Men of Letters,” he explains, passing the sugar on to Castiel.

Castiel nods his head, adds six spoons of sugar to his coffee, and Dean makes a face. If the man doesn’t end up diabetic, it would be a damn miracle. “Then, under what premise did Henry explain the situation?”

“All he sent was a letter,” Sam says, pulling out said letter from his rucksack and handing it over to Castiel.

“Interesting,” Castiel mutters, taking the letter out of the envelope. “I take it he didn’t deliver it personally?”

“Some Kraut named Eckhart did,” Dean says.

“Eckhart?” Balthazar’s question is sharp. His eyes narrow in on Dean. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty positive, buddy.”

“Are you familiar with the name?” Castiel pushes the glasses up his nose as his eyes hover across the letter.

“Commander Eckhart of the SS,” Balthazar says, and runs a hand across his face as he thinks. “If this man was on American soil—”

“This man got his hands on official correspondence from the M.O.L.. God knows the damage he’s already done.”

“Okay, I get it.” Dean speaks up and tries to garner everyone’s attention away from the panicking. “Care to enlighten us on what you think is going on? Just to set things straight, Sam and I haven’t seen Henry in years.”

“Beneath Henry’s name are the letters MOL,” Castiel explains.

“Men of Letters,” Sam says, piecing that bit together.

Castiel nods. “The Men of Letters are a society dedicated to guarding secrets that could unravel the world within the blink of an eye. Science, religion, politics – all of these things will have no meaning or credence if these secrets are exposed.”

“Secrets like what, exactly?” Sam says, leaning up and resting his weight on his elbows, completely enraptured by the subject.

“No one knows,” Balthazar says with a shrug. “The amount of knowledge is limited to rank within the society. We’ve reason to believe that Henry was pretty high up on the food chain.”

The way he says the word ‘was’ makes Dean uneasy.

“So it’s possible that the bad guys are using us to get to him?” It’s the most logical thing Dean can think of, and he’s relieved to see Sam nod his approval.

Castiel considers the statement, then promptly shakes his head. “Unlikely, if Eckhart already has some sort of footing.” He waves the letter to show what he means, before slipping it back into the envelope and handing it back to Sam. “The SS work clean, they cauterize after they strike. They wouldn’t bring you two into the picture unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Meaning we have something they need,” Dean says, until it finally clicks. “The journal.”

Castiel’s smile is genuine, and it’s only then that Dean notices. The two of them are stringing the Winchesters along. They know, and they just want to see if the brothers are astute enough to piece everything together themselves.

“I have reason to believe John Winchester knew he was being watched, so he sent the journal to you before he was incarcerated,” Castiel says. He sits back and sets his eyes on Dean, as if he’s looking for something he’s still not sure of. “Of course, what you tell me throws a wrench in my theory.”

“Why would they deliver what they need when it was already in their clutches?” Sam sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Dean takes a moment to look at everyone sitting at the table, and he hesitates to say what is on his mind, especially since it is so painfully obvious. He thinks that, maybe, it’s a stupid idea and he’s looking at it the wrong way, and that’s the reason why no one’s thought of it yet. But when has that ever stopped him from speaking up? “Maybe because they needed a translator?” The moment of silence that follows makes him want to sink into his seat, but instead he shrugs and plays it cool. “What?”

“That’s absurd,” Castiel says, frowning at Dean.

“Think about it, Cas. Whatever is going on, they wanted us to come here, to the point where they sent private communications about our current whereabouts. Aaron said so himself, between you and us we can piece together whatever the hell it was that Dad’s looking for. Those Nazi sons of bitches are good – so good that we all bought into it without a second thought. Simple, clean, and no one suspected a thing.”

Drumming his fingertips against the chair’s armrest, he looks to each one of the men present, thinking he’s outdone himself in his stupidity. But it’s the slightly wide-eyed look that Cas is giving him that makes it all slot into place.

_Oh. Oh crap._

Dean is sure John would be proud of his poker face at that moment, as he raises his eyebrows and grins, encouraging the others into thinking that it’s all a good idea… and that no one should mention him nicknaming the nerdy librarian ‘Cas’.

“Y-Your logic is sound,” Castiel says, clearing his throat and hiding his face behind a mug as he sips at his coffee. “I do not feel at all pleased that I’ve been thrown into the fray, but I fear you may have a point, Dean.”

First name basis and Dean didn’t even break a sweat.

Balthazar makes a sound between an amused snort and a chuckle, but Sam is a complete sport and carries the conversation down a more professional path. “Then you’re aware of the logograms?”

“Aware, yes. Can I translate them? No, I’ve already tried. There is just no possible way to trace to the source of origin,” Castiel says, before pushing his chair away and walking down into the library. “The Men Of Letters sent a copy of the script to the library, and insisted that I could translate it. God knows what made them think that. I may speak fifteen languages, but gibberish isn’t one of them. At first I thought it may be Celtic or Scandinavian, but the syntax is all wrong – too abstract, too old to mean anything.”

“He’s one smart cookie,” Dean mutters. He can only smirk at Sam when he gives him that look that says _‘one more word out of you, and you’re sleeping in the car’_.

“I thought it may be a closer relative to Sumerian,” Sam says, and Dean is struck, not for the first time, with the thought that he’s just tagging along in this expedition for brains. The time is inappropriate, the thought itself is inappropriate, so Dean tells that little voice to shut up.

Castiel returns with a book in tow, and mumbles his thank you to Balthazar, who is kind enough to clear out a space on the table for him. He puts it down and leafs through it, settling on a page filled with numbers and logograms. “The script is different, but the time frame might be more accurate. I sent them a communication several weeks ago, saying that there really was no possible way of translating this. I’ve yet to get their reply.”

“A few wee—wait, how long ago are we talking here?” Dean leans on the table, the gears in his head turning. “That letter is six days old, and John went missing a month ago.”

“Late March, perhaps? I suspect the MOL may have known of the Reich’s intentions for quite a while, but I fear I don’t have the answers you seek. Most of the information Balthazar and I have is heavily influenced by speculation, nothing more. I will help you, but my reach only extends so far,” Castiel says, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“You may have to accept that finding your father is not their top priority,” Balthazar adds, trying to appease. “Whatever it is these folks are looking for, it’s big.”

“How big?” Sam says.

“Big enough to change the course of the war.” Castiel’s voice is grim and tight, and looks away as he says it, the heaviness of his words weighing down on him. “The Fuhrer is convinced that the occult will give him the leverage he needs to win.”

“The occult?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean says with a laugh. He immediately sobers up at the tense looks both Castiel and Balthazar give him. “There’s no way you can be serious.”

“Necromancy, telepathy, flying saucers – there isn’t a single thing Hitler has not tried. The object he seeks is rumored to hold great power, and what I would normally dispel as a load of crock has been of keen interest for the MOL,” Castiel says, drumming his fingers against the surface of the book. “I had hoped that, maybe, someone such as yourself could offer their professional input.”

Sam loosens the knot on his tie before moving the same hand to cover his mouth. He shakes his head in defeat. Dean knows that Castiel may have narrowed it down – but to what, exactly, they have no idea. Half of the things explained make little to no sense, and like Castiel said, whatever did just sounded like complete bull.

“Okay,” Dean says, taking in a deep breath and exhaling calm and slow. He’s eaten already, but he’s tired, and no amount of aspirin can cure the headache pounding in his skull. “How about we call it a night and mull this over to the sight of our eyelids?”

Castiel straightens away from where he’s hunched over the book with a tired nod of his head, and Dean imagines how stressful this must be for the librarian. He and Sam may be in this for John, but he figures – if the heaviness around his eyes is anything to go by – that Castiel too has a direct connection with this mess. Dean just isn’t sure of what it is just yet.

“Of course,” Castiel says, closing the book and dropping it onto his seat. “It’s been a long day.”

“Thirty-six hours,” Dean testily carifies.

“Castiel will show you to your rooms, gentlemen. Shower, sleep, and I expect you down for supper,” Balthazar says, patting Castiel’s shoulder with a steady look. “There will be enough wine to go around, rest assured.”

The chairs scrape loudly against the polished floors quickly after the initial clatter of silverware has faded, a cloud of coughs and murmured words soon following. The clock above library hallway strikes a quarter to noon.

“I’ll see to this myself,” Dean hears Balthazar say to Castiel, as he takes the dishes out of the librarian’s hands. “You take them to their quarters.”

“Why me?”

Balthazar grins knowingly. “A little social interaction might do you some good, Cassie.”

Dean turns away before he’s caught listening.

“So, what are your thoughts on this?” Sam says, tapping a hand to Dean’s elbow to get his attention.

“What do I think? I think they’re all nuts, that’s what. The occult? The guy even mentioned flying saucers, for Pete’s sake.”

“It all makes sense, Dean, at least what Castiel said about the Men of Letters, and Eckhart, too.”

“Good to see it made some sense to someone, at least.”

“Right this way.” Castiel interrupts the two of them without much preamble, leaving Balthazar behind to clean up the mess. 

Draping their jackets over their elbows, Sam and Dean follow Castiel down the left corridor, the one under the lion flag.

Leaded windows decorate the left wall in sets of three, with fleurs-de-lis at the top of each frame. Rain continues to pitter-patter against the panes, and thunder booms and lightning cracks as they make their way along the carpeted paths. Gas lamps are lit at every corner to make up for the somber lighting the storm brought in. They cast shadows along the suits of armor and old portraits of faces Dean doesn’t recognize, but maybe Sam does.

The right wall is covered with tapestries, and it may take him a moment to make the connection, but he realizes it, Dean nudges at Sam’s side. “Would you look at that?”

One of the tapestries contains a cottage and two children holding hands. At the top window peeks out an old lady, and along the water well is a trail of gumdrops. The following one is of a girl sitting on the sill of the only window, her unending hair falling along the side of a tall tower.

Dean recognizes most of them, but before either Winchester can comment on it, Castiel speaks up from ahead. “Grimms’ fairy tales,” he says without slowing his step. “Those tapestries are several decades old, and are our pride and joy.”

“They’re amazing,” Sam comments, and Dean has to agree. The one that features a dancing skeleton particularly fascinates him.

“Thank you.”

Taking a left turn and descending three short steps, they arrive at a hall with six wooden doors. The hallway is darker than the ones they took to get here, far gloomier, and Dean dreads that their rooms will actually turn out to be dungeons. “Guessing this is it?”

Castiel nods only once, and takes a keyring that hangs from an ornamental candelabrum. “I trust that your quarters will suit your needs,” he says, unlocking the door with a small amount of difficulty. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the library. We open in ten minutes.”

It’s hard to remember that the castle is a functioning library open to the public when they’re being treated like foreign ambassadors worth their weight in gold. Dean nods absently, too busy being amazed by the décor of the room, and the decently sized bed that beckons him to lie down and snore until tomorrow morning. It’s antiquated and medieval, but luxuriously simple in a way everything European tends to be.

Sam walks over to their luggage and immediately starts rummaging through his things, perhaps looking for a change of clothing considering that they’ve been wearing the same suits for the past day and a half. They both probably reek of sweat and oil.

Dean turns around to face Castiel, who is still standing just outside the door, looking at him with a curious expression. His face is guarded and eerily blank, but his glasses reflect the light from the nearby lamps, making his eyes gleam with the illusion of tears. It takes Dean off guard for a quick second, but he breaks into a smile once his brain catches up. “I guess this is where I say thanks. For the hospitality, I mean.”

Castiel rapidly blinks, as if it’s only then that Dean has come into focus. “It’s a pleasure to have you and your brother, and I apologize in advance for any inconvenience you may stumble upon.”

Nodding his head, Dean leans against the doorframe and slips his hands into his pant pockets. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try. “What do you say we swing by the nearest joint and catch a drink later on?” At the confused look, Dean adds, “Just you and me.”

The moment of clarity is easy to catch as Dean learns that Castiel may not be the expressive type, but his eyes sure say a lot. Right now, they’re saying that Dean isn’t worth the time – but the corner of those thick lips say otherwise as they tip upward. Had Dean not been paying attention, he would have missed the action completely.

“I’m afraid I have a thing called standards, Mr. Winchester.”

“My brother’s taken.”

“And so I should settle for you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dean says, holding out his hand, just inches away from Castiel’s forearm. He doesn’t really know what he means exactly, maybe it’s just his insecurities shining through in a moment of weakness, but he regrets saying it. “I, uh, all I mean is that I got some time on my hands, is all. And I can’t think of a better way of spending it.” He makes sure to accent his words with his most charming smile.

Castiel deadpans. “So I only get the scrap of your attention.”

“Christ, that’s not—I—That’s not what I…”

With a withering sigh, Castiel presses the bedroom key into Dean’s palm. He doesn’t look offended, but he does look bored half to death. Unimpressed would be the perfect word to describe him, but call Dean crazy, there’s something there. There is no way to put a name to it, but the sole fact that Castiel didn’t react as if he were atrociously disgusted is a good a sign as any. “I may be plenty of things, but easy isn’t one of them. Try a little harder, Mr. Winchester, and then we’ll see.”

Bingo.

Dean watches Castiel as he walks away, all six feet of graceful movement and a hint of arrogance between his shoulders. He knows he’s won, and he’s flaunting it unabashed.

“Just call me Dean!” he calls, and maybe Castiel acknowledges him, maybe he doesn’t, but he’s playing hard to get just three hours after they’ve met, and that counts as a success in Dean’s book.

He waits until Castiel’s silhouette disappears over a corner before closing the bedroom door.

Sam is stepping out of the bathroom, dressed in striped pajamas that make him look two feet taller than he already is. His hair is damp, and dark circles underline his eyes, but he’s wearing a dopey grin as he moves across the room that tells Dean he’s up to something. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sam says, shrinking into himself like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Holding up a finger, it’s all the warning Dean is going to give him. “I’m taking a shower,” he announces, just to say something to break the awkwardness of the moment. Grabbing the first pair of pajamas he can find, he disappears behind the bathroom door.

Yawning widely enough to swallow the bar of soap, Dean rubs at his eyes as he turns the shower knobs. The water is blissfully hot, and he’s already thinking about flopping into bed while he strips down. He groans aloud when he takes off his pants, and notices that he still has the hand stains on his thighs. Castiel probably thinks he’s a slob as well.

Goosebumps erupt across Dean’s skin and he shivers as the water pelts against his back, working on the knots the long trip has worked into his muscles. He runs hands through his hair and lathers it up, scrubbing off all of the sweat, rain and grease that has tagged along since he left Sam’s place. He makes sure to scrub behind his ears.

As far as first impressions go, he is certain he’s butchered this one, although he’s not sure how severely. Of the many things Dean Winchester is good at, leaving a lasting first impression has always been his forte. There is nothing a good suit and freshly slicked hair can’t do when aided by the trademark Winchester charm: a confident grin, a slight tip of the hat, and what Jessica so fondly likes to call the ‘Winchester Charisma’. It had gotten him a meeting with the director of humanities at Sam’s university, helped him land a job as Sam’s personal field-man. It had ladies giggling and hiding behind their delicate kerchiefs as they offered their hands for him to kiss.

And then there was Castiel.

Unimpressed, detached, and smart Castiel, who will only bat an eyelash if there is something of great historical value at stake. Dean figures he somehow falls into that category, but he’s unsure as to how. He’s the treasure hunter, the one who does the dirty work for the pristine scholars who spend their lives behind their desks. Like Sam frequently reminds him: ‘if you want to be a good archaeologist, you have to get out of the library’. Unfortunately, not everyone shares Sam’s mindset of the field.

Dean wonders what kind of scholar Castiel is, and if it’s worth pursuing those lovely eyes and elegant hands.

Rinsing off, Dean slips into his nightclothes and steps out into a dark room. Sam has drawn the curtains and dimmed the lamps, and his massive body is already sprawled across one of the beds in an ungraceful mess. It’s times like these that make it hard to remember that Sam is already a man in his late twenties, and not the kid who bugged Dean for a game of catch after school.

Pulling down the bed sheets, Dean turns down the lamps until they flicker off. With a full belly, fresh bath, and an interesting thought in his head, he lets himself fall onto the bed. It’s a little uncomfortable, but screw it. At least there’s a pillow and no annoying springs digging into his back.


	5. Chapter 5

The day flows by in a slow shade of gray, the rain having scared off any students or tourists, with the exception of two individuals who frequent the library on a weekly basis. Thunder rumbles in the near distance as rain continues to patter the windows, filling the hollow silence with a sense of homeliness that makes Castiel want to hum as he sorts the philosophy shelf at the very back of the room. Humming is better than thinking, and right now he would rather not think about the trouble that may be brewing just down the hall.

He’s a librarian, not a soldier. Castiel knows many languages, as well as mathematics, science and philosophy. He’s a scholar who looks at the world through the colored panes of his library, and nothing else. Observation without interference. The thought of having Nazis at his doorstep sets a chill to his bones. He wants nothing to do with this situation, so he’ll do nothing to encourage it. The Winchesters will get all of the information that is at his disposal, and then they’ll be on their way. By the end of the week, they will be nothing but a bad memory.

“What are your thoughts on this?”

Balthazar’s voice breaking the deep silence startles Castiel, and he clings to the rolling ladder for dear life, willing his heart to calm down. “Don’t do that.”

“Do you really think that letter was a forgery? That you’ve been cast into this intentionally?”

Lodging the last two books into place, Castiel descends from the ladder to place a hand over Balthazar’s shoulder. “I’m not sure of anything, so far. This could very well be a coincidence, but…”

“It may not.”

Castiel side-eyes the men sitting at the tables they had convened at earlier, and on a hunch, drives Balthazar further away from them for the sake of privacy. “What I think is that we should be ready for anything while they remain here. Aaron may need to be confined to the grounds until we’re well out of their attention. We have to play it safe, especially if Eckhart has already infiltrated several of the bases.”

“How can we possibly be ready when we don’t know what we should expect?” Balthazar grabs Castiel by the elbow and pulls him close enough to whisper, “John Winchester was here, you spoke with him. If there is anything I should know, Castiel—”

“I would have told you. I would have told them. I’ve dealt with enough to continue dallying in the game of secrets. It will only get you so far.” Secrets and lies had cost him his parents’ life, and now Castiel wishes to have nothing to do with them. Omitting John’s visit is something he is still debating whether to reveal or not.

“Well then,” Balthazar says, clearing his throat and tugging at the hem of his vest. “I see we have no other option other than to wait.”

“And hope we don’t get the answers too late,” Castiel adds, anxiously running his thumb through the grooves of his pocket watch.

The rain falls harder, echoing through the stone hallways like a haunting melody. Both peaceful and unnerving, it feels like a portent. Whether good or bad, Castiel can’t really decide.

“He looks to be a nice fellow,” Balthazar says, seemingly as a nonchalant afterthought, but Castiel knows him far too well.

“Who does?”

“Don’t play coy with me, mein liebling.”

“I will not engage you in this conversation, Balthazar. We’ve been through this enough times.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Balthazar chuckles. “It’s just that, with the way you two were gazing into each other’s eyes, I thought there had been some sort of connection.” His words drip a certain kind of sarcasm that is probably meant to edge Castiel on, or call him out on it.

It takes Castiel a moment to realize that Balthazar isn’t talking about Sam. He feels the tip of his ears warm, but he’s certain it has more to do with indignation rather than embarrassment. “As I’ve told him, I have this thing called ‘standards’,” he makes a point to air-quote the word. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of the word?”

“Oh ho!” Balthazar calls out, but flinches when someone shushes him from the main floor. “He’s handsome, and seems to have a wonderful personality.” His words are almost melodious.

“He a treasure hunter, which means he’s a brute. That man wouldn’t know erudition if it was delivered to him on a silver platter. He _belched_ ,” Castiel says, scandalized by the idea of even being seen with someone so… so _uncouth_. “He’s nothing but this roguish drugstore cowboy with a slight hint of charm to his name. It will certainly take more than lovely eyes and a handsome face to… to…” Castiel searches for a way to complete that sentence, but only draws up a blank. “I’m not interested.”

But Balthazar is grinning from ear to ear. “No need to be defensive.”

“I’m not being defensive,” Castiel says coolly, grabbing the lapels of his suit and tugging them fiercely, before flattening them down with his palm. “And that’s the end of it. I am a professional, and I want nothing to do with these men.”

He pretends that he doesn’t trip on a step as he makes his way back onto the main floor.

“Live a little, Castiel. There’s no need to conquer the world when you haven’t taken the chance to walk away from your doorstep.”

“This conversation is over,” Castiel says, walking away to man the front desk.

❖

As the day slowly goes by, the Winchesters fade from Castiel’s mind, the name being replaced with those of books such as _Gone With the Wind_ , _Brave New World_ , and _The Grapes of Wrath_ , while he sits behind his desk and marks dates off a tally as they’re gradually returned. He doesn’t normally take the front desk, but with Miss Talbot out of the country, they’ve found themselves short of staff. Besides, there is really no need to summon anyone else into a cold, rainy day. Three people can run the library very easily when visitors are scarce.

Manning the front desk also places Castiel on a vantage point, allowing him to keep an eye on the front doors and the strange gentlemen who continue leafing through books and looking over their shoulders. Normally, Castiel would wander over and ask if they were in need of assistance, but with a brewing situation at hand, he let Balthazar take care of it.

They leave an hour before closing, when the moon spills in whenever the doors swing open, taking the stagnant stench of suspicion with them.

Perhaps it’s all in Castiel’s mind. The talk of conspiracy and danger may be adding a layer of paranoia he can very well do without. It may be harmless at the very moment, probably it won’t even have a purpose, but he’s now carrying a shadow of nervousness and anxiety he doesn’t need. He’s just a librarian, after all. He doesn’t need any excitement in his life.

“Let’s close up for the night,” Balthazar calls out from down the hall, rapping his fist against a wooden column. “Make sure to double lock those doors.”

Castiel files away today’s papers and organizes all returned books by segments, setting them into a neat stack before closing the library. Three padlocks the size of his fist, and a deadbolt. He draws the curtains, cutting off the outside lighting.

Gathering the books, Castiel crosses the main floor, walks by Aaron who is sweeping up the dirt dragged in throughout the day, but stops at the table they had huddled over just this morning. He sets the books down in favor of looking through the ones the two strange men had spent the entire day looking through.

“They’re just journals,” Aaron says, shrugging when he stops sweeping. “Personal research?” He doesn’t sound too convinced.

“I don’t know.” Castiel checks the log information engraved in the leather, and finds that it’s missing a publishing date and the author’s name. The pages are worn and yellowing with age, but the content is just senseless rambling of magic tricks. “Spies?”

“They had SS badges.”

Castiel looks up, alarmed. “How do you know?”

“I caught a glimpse of it earlier. It was hidden under the blonde one’s collar, saw it when he moved to pull out another book from his satchel.” Aaron rubs his nose with the back of his hand – a nervous gesture Castiel has picked up on. “You think they’re here for the Americans?”

Castiel tried to kid himself into thinking he’s had time to plot a course of action, if the need arose. And all this time, the enemy has already been sitting inside of his home. Heaven knows how far along they already are.

“Cassie?” Balthazar emerges through the archway, pointedly looking at Aaron and waving him off. “Summon the Winchesters. We’re going out for dinner this evening.”

“Surprising for someone as stingy as you,” Aaron counters, pulling a scornful face in Balthazar’s direction before turning into the left corridor, towards the living quarters. “Keep an eye on the short one for me,” Aaron shouts over his shoulder, his chuckle reverberating through the hallway.

“Why should I?” Castiel murmurs to himself, his colleagues’ humor lost on him.

❖

“Wow, Dean. You’re looking dapper,” Sam says, whistling an impressed note in his brother’s direction, who is standing in front of a body-length mirror and adjusting the knot on his silk tie.

Dean beams, moving his hand to fix the top button of his waistcoat and dusting off the dust motes on his jacket. Bringing his expensive suit was by far the best decision he’d made before leaving the States, because in his personal opinion, with hair slicked into place and a dash of cologne, he looks and feels like a million bucks and ready to come face to face with any lucky contender.

Sam is dressed a bit more casually, and for a moment Dean wonders if he’s overdressed and trying too hard to impress. His first impression failed to do so, with stained slacks and smelling like old cheese, hence the choice for dressing the slightest bit over the top for dinner this evening.

“I might just give Bogart a run for his money tonight, don’t you think?”

Sam doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and grabs his jacket, which he’d left hanging from the back of a chair when they had first walked in the room a few hours ago.

They’re very much fatigued, jet-lagged and drowsy, even after getting several hours of sleep, but Dean is at least hoping that a night out in the cold German air might be able to shake him awake and sweat off the rust in his bones. A few beers here, and a hearty meal there, some lovely nurses singing show tunes while fawning over… him, really, given that Sam insists on being a one-woman guy. However, rather than broadening that thought on nurses, Dean’s mind zeros in on a specific pair of baby-blues he’d like to call his.

“You ready?” Sam says, opening the door without bothering to wait for an answer.

Giving himself one last once-over, Dean nods his head and grabs his coat.

❖

_Zum Anbeißen_ is a small restaurant that stands nestled in a corner between a bakery and a shoe shop just a twenty minute walk from the library. It’s loud and merry, with native music bursting from a live band as lovely ladies in white, brown and green dirndls serve the tables. The smell of roasting meat and crisp beer is strong in the air, mingling with the pungent smell of cigar smoke.

It’s far too rowdy, and Dean is dandified, but he can’t stop laughing raucously at Balthazar’s anecdotes. By all means, he doesn’t like the man, his accent and attitude making him seem shady, but aided by the warmth in his belly the beer has provoked, Dean can’t be bothered to hold anything against him. Similarly, Sam is coughing into a napkin after coming down from a high of guffaws.

Castiel doesn’t appear to be amused. He’s sitting at the end of the table, nudging the last bite of seasoned potatoes around his plate with a fork. He looks bored, and toeing the line of irritation. Dean feels sorry for him. Judging by his quiet disposition back in the library, it’s easy to tell that these kinds of joints aren’t his thing.

“But then I asked him,” Balthazar says, leaning against his elbow on the table, “if you had to choose a weevil…” He stops to snicker into his hand. “Which would you choose? And do you know what he answered?” Both Winchesters inch closer. “He said, ‘well that’s easy – I’d choose the lesser of two weevils’!”

Castiel rubs at his temples when they burst out in another wave of laughter.

“The bloke was pissed off his rocker, let me tell you. But _weevils!_ ”

Dean’s belly hurts from the exercise it’s getting, and he has to dab a napkin across his forehead after a while. The restaurant is stuffy, and with the amount of layers he has on, he feels about ready to melt. He considers taking off his jacket, but thinks better of it once he remembers about the gun strapped to his lower back.

“All right, all right, but really. How on Earth did you end up in Germany, of all places?” Sam says, taking a sip from his lager.

Sitting back in his chair, Balthazar worries his lower lip in thought. Several huffs of laughter continue to ebb their way out of his chest, but he eventually settles down. “Ah, let’s see. My usual story narrates the events of a young bachelor who came for the culture and stayed for the damen; voluptuous and amatory, the lot of them. But in truth, I stayed only for one.”

“Isn’t that romantic,” Dean says, mockingly.

“It’s always a lady, isn’t it,” Sam adds with the hint of a sigh, staring down at his pint with a longing expression.

“Looks like our dear professor has sipped the love juice.” Balthazar leans forward again, this time lacing his fingers together and resting his chin over them. “Tell me about her.”

Sam smiles, his eyes turning soft as he averts them down to the table. He clears his throat, shifting in his seat as he looks for where to start. “She’s a teacher,” he says. “We plan on getting married in June of next year.”

Dean grins at hearing Sam’s elation. “Always a lady,” Dean says without much thought. It isn’t always true, but it’s the easiest thing to say in a restaurant full of men, in a country where admitting to any kind of deviancy can get you killed.

The scraping of a chair dragging across the floor makes them all look up at Castiel, who is gathering his jacket. “I need a bit of air,” he announces quietly, and says nothing else as he hurriedly navigates his way through the crowd and out the door.

“This sweetheart of yours,” Balthazar continues, as if not caring that Castiel just left in a hurry. “Her name?”

“You’re just going to let him run off?” Dean interrupts, already straightening up in his seat.

“He’s a grown man, liebling. I’m sure he can take care of himself.” Balthazar raises an amused eyebrow as Dean stands up. He smiles up at him, knowingly, but doesn’t say another word.

“I’ll meet you back in the library,” Dean says, nodding his head at Sam, who waves him off with a smirk.

Dean makes his way through the throng of people and steps outside, taking a deep breath of cold air that is soothing in more ways than one. The rain has stopped but it’s still cloudy, and thunder still rumbles in the distance.

Fixing his jacket, he looks down both sides of the sidewalk, trying to spot a glimpse of Castiel amongst the scarce amount of people. He sees him shortly after he starts walking in the opposite direction of the library, mumbles a ‘good evening’ to a couple getting into a car that are polite enough to smile at him.

Dean isn’t sure if Castiel did it on purpose, but he can’t help but feel a surge of hope when Dean sees him enter a modest looking bar with barely any patrons. With a bounce in his step, Dean follows.

Much smaller and quieter than the previous establishment, the bar smells of polished wood and fresh pastry. To the left, a man sits behind a grand piano, stroking keys to a smooth rhythm that would lull anyone to sleep. It’s cozy, and he hesitates at the sight of Castiel sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of liquor.

Snapping his fingers, Dean catches the piano man’s attention. He walks over to him and asks, “Do you know Sinatra?”

The piano man, who can’t possibly be old enough to even be inside a bar, gives him a nod and a flourish of keys that sets into a familiar tune. Satisfied, Dean drops a few coins into the tip jar.

Running his hands over suit jacket, and straightening out his waistcoat, Dean makes his way to the bar and smoothly slips onto the stool beside Castiel. He knocks on the bar top, orders whatever’s on tap, and at the confused look the bartender gives him, Castiel is kind enough to step in and translate the request into German.

“Thanks,” Dean says, settling himself into a comfortable position, while still being able to face Castiel.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel offers in return, tipping back his glass, eyes steady on the ice cubes that chink against it.

Dean takes a moment to admire the angular features of his profile, from the perfectly straight nose to the oddly flat lips, and the way his hair curls just behind his ear. Maybe it’s the glasses that make him look endearing, but Dean wishes to see Castiel without them, just to be able to appreciate how handsome he truly is.

He looks away when the bartender puts the glass of beer in front of him, and Dean mumbles a “danke”.

“I’m here,” Castiel says, stating the obvious. He finally turns to look at Dean with a serious expression that makes Dean worry.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Impress me.” Castiel twines his fingers together, the tension around his eyes melting into something more expectant.

Dean drums his fingers against the bar top, smiling incredulously at the man sitting beside him. _Impress me._ Dressed in his finest outfit, hair combed, and zero belching—Dean isn’t sure what else he can do. He isn’t sure whether or not he should do anything. What makes Castiel so special, that it would merit Dean’s best effort in wooing?

Licking his lips, Dean decides that he doesn’t know. There’s nothing to set Castiel apart from the endless amount of people Dean’s found worth casting a second glance to, but there’s something there that makes him want to win him over. Maybe it’s his good looks, or maybe that slight intellectual arrogance; maybe it’s nothing at all and for once, it isn’t the bit between his legs doing the thinking for him.

“I’m afraid I got nothing to brag about,” Dean offers, turning his eyes to the glass he’s holding. “What you see is all I’ve got to offer.” And it’s the truth. The luxuries he enjoys aren’t his to show off.

Castiel’s eyes, so intensely blue, stare curiously at Dean. “You don’t seem to be a modest kind of man. I do believe that, once again, you’re trying too hard.”

“Hardly trying, actually,” Dean says, smirking around the rim of the glass as he takes a swig. “I got nothing but the clothes on my back, a heap of junk for a car back home, and my good looks. Everything else is courtesy of Sam’s good graces.”

There is a moment of silence that makes Dean fidget in his seat, eyes locked onto Castiel’s like magnets unable to be pulled apart. Thrill surges and scorches his blood when Castiel finally breaks the gaze in favor of looking over Dean’s form with an arched eyebrow. He hums a note that Dean figures is appreciative, before turning back to his drink.

“It’s a very nice suit,” Castiel says, his tone serious and unaffected. Dean’s grip on his glass tightens when the tip of Castiel’s tongue surfaces to lick along his lips. “You look swell.”

Dean’s stomach makes a pleasant flip. “You’re not so bad yourself, Cas,” he says, while attempting to sound casual and not at all affected by the admission.

The bartender has drifted along to serve the only two patrons aside from them, granting them a moment of privacy Dean wishes he could take advantage of. But for what? He’s determined not to destroy this tumultuous acquaintanceship they’ve formed over the course of a day… a _day_.

The realization leaves Dean reeling. It’s only been a day and yet it’s felt like weeks since he’d first laid eyes on Castiel. Thoughts that Castiel’s detachment is just a side effect of being courted by a stranger suddenly dawns on him, and Dean nearly laughs out in relief.

“How did you end up all the way Germany?” Dean says. He has made the split decision to act like an adult, and he’ll win Castiel over the old-fashion way: by taking the time to get to know him. Patience isn’t his strong point, but for a gentleman like Castiel Milton, he’s willing to give it a try. “You don’t sound very European.”

Castiel looks mildly surprised by the turn the conversation has taken, but his shoulders sag and the corners of his mouth tip slightly upward. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but the tension from back at the restaurant seems to have melted away.

“I’m from Illinois,” Castiel begins to explain, pausing to remove his glasses. Dean watches him clean them with a napkin, blow them, and then put them back on. “My father’s business forced my parents to move to England when I was five. I became interested in history by the time I began secondary school, after visiting several castles. Germany has been my home for the past fifteen years, having moved to Berlin by myself to continue my studies. When the war broke out, Balthazar offered me a job at the library.”

“Huh. So I’m guessing you’ve done some traveling.”

“Oh, no, hardly. I know it’s a terrible excuse, but I’m terrified of flying,” Castiel says, shyly attempting to suppress a chuckle. “If humans were meant to take to the skies—”

“We’d have wings! Exactly!” Dean exclaims with a bought of delighted laughter. They have something in common, and it’s a better start than anything Dean would have hoped for.

Castiel is smiling now, big and brilliant before clearing his throat and fixing his bow tie. His cheeks are tinged pink, but Dean can’t tell if that’s a result of the alcohol or something else entirely.

The music changes into something slower, the familiar tune of Sinatra’s _As Time Goes By_ drifting through the mellow air of the bar. The patrons have drifted away, maybe to a table or elsewhere, but Dean doesn’t bother to check. 

Too enraptured by Castiel’s smile, he lifts his glass.

“A toast,” Dean announces.

Swiveling towards Dean, Castiel raises his glass. “To the expedition,” he offers.

Dean considers him for a moment, tracing the sharp slopes of Castiel’s face with his eyes before he says, “To the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Their glasses chink.

❖

“I met John Winchester a matter of months ago,” Castiel says during their walk back to the library. He has his hands deep in his coat’s pockets in an attempt to fend off the sharp cold of the rainy night.

Beside him, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“He came looking for me, asking if I could translate the glyphs.” Shrugging deeper into his coat, Castiel turns his face skyward. The sky is inky, with every star hidden behind pregnant rainclouds. “You have his eyes.”

“And my mother’s mouth, so I’ve been told,” Dean says. He gives Castiel a sly grin. “But the rest belongs to you.”

Ducking his head to hide a smile, Castiel clears his throat. “It looks like all the best parts are already spoken for.”

Dean’s laugh is deep and rich, honest like a child’s and just as loud. His green eyes gleam under the streetlights, and once the laughter dies down to a pleasant smile, Castiel can feel his innards being suspended in mid-air. It’s a strange kind of excitement that keeps him on his toes, and maybe it’s just the lager, but Castiel can swear Dean looks twice as dashing than when they first met.

“Aren’t you a rascal?”

“I have my moments,” Castiel says, sidestepping a puddle on the sidewalk.

“Oh? Go on. Tell me about your conquests.”

“Hardly anything memorable, I assure you.”

“Come on, Cas. A creature like you? I’m shocked you aren’t wearing anyone on your arm. Such a waste.”

Castiel bites his lower lip, basking in the attention. It’s been so long since anyone has shown such a blatant interest in him, and he fears that the night may take a turn into dangerous territory. Standards be damned, Dean is playing him like an instrument, with skillful fingers sinfully strumming his rusted chords.

“It’s difficult to find someone who is willing to give a boring man a chance,” Castiel says, and holds up his hand before Dean can retort. “It’s always the soldiers and the adventurers who get the girl, not the stunted librarian who is afraid of heights and would rather stay in.”

“But you can talk dirty in fifteen different languages,” Dean says suggestively.

Castiel laughs, but it’s humorless.

They walk quietly until the library is in view, the towering structure ominous and imposing as thunder rumbles overhead. This is Castiel’s fortress, and he feels relieved to be home after a long night. He’s feeling tired, and a bit hot under the collar thanks to Dean’s crass teasing.

“Two lonely strangers in the night,” Dean suddenly says, making Castiel falter.

“Excuse me?”

“Just an observation.”

Castiel’s lips part when Dean reaches for him, firmly grabbing his elbow in a gesture meant to reassure. Their eyes briefly meet, but Castiel quickly looks away, afraid of what he may see in them.

The Winchesters will only be here for a couple of days. Once they’ve decoded the text, they will be well on their way to God knows where. Dean Winchester is a passing fancy, the promise of danger and excitement proving an intoxicating mix that is getting under his skin. Getting attached to a cocky wanderer won’t do Castiel any good; it will only cause him heartache once the time comes for them to move on with their quest.

With a soft sigh, Castiel pushes the library door open and steps inside, only to find the others already present and convened at the tables. Dean comes in shortly after, standing close enough to Castiel’s body that his heat bleeds in beneath his clothing. Shivering, Castiel walks towards the table, away from the comforting heat while shedding his coat.

“Glad you two finally decided to join us,” Balthazar quips from where he stands, hunched over a variety of books.

Across from him sits Sam, casting both Dean and Castiel an amused look Castiel doesn’t bother looking into.

“It’s raining,” Dean says, walking past Castiel to take the seat next to Sam’s. “Was just waiting for the downpour to let up before we risked the walk back.” Removing his coat and unceremoniously casting it aside, Dean drops onto the chair with a huff. “Can’t afford to catch a cold. Ain’t that right, Cas?”

Both Sam and Balthazar turn to look at Castiel with their eyebrows raised in question.

Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, Castiel nervously clears his throat. “Yes, of course. Why else would we take so long?” He doesn’t meet Balthazar’s eyes as he takes the book from underneath him, scared that the heat on his cheeks and ears will be too obvious. “What have you two been up to in our absence?”

“Attempting to decode this mess,” Balthazar says, waving both hands above his head in exasperation. “I’ve gone through every bloody book and journal we own on the subject of dead languages – but so far I’ve got zilch.”

Conflicted emotions play out inside of Castiel’s mind, both relief and trepidation wreaking havoc as he schools in his features for the blank look he feels safer behind. More of the same questions dance around as he thinks deeper into the problem, and tries to bring up a rational and suitable answer for it. But maybe the rational is the wrong approach when talk of the occult comes into play.

Castiel reaches for a loose piece of paper and the first pen he finds. “There has to be a way,” he says, running a hand over his face.

“Well, you can tell me if you’ve found it in the morning. I’m far too tired and far too old to keep on playing Scrabble at one in the morning.” Balthazar straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck with a groan. “I trust you gentlemen to behave yourselves while I’m gone.”

As discreetly as possible, Castiel contemplates his pocket watch and is surprised to find that he did spend more than two hours having a pleasant chat with Dean at the bar. He’s grateful that he stopped drinking after his second glass, favoring to turn his attention towards a more fascinating vice.

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Sam says.

Castiel pointedly ignores the suggestiveness of his words.

“Have a nice beauty sleep, old man,” Dean says with a wave. “We’ll make sure not to wake you.”

Balthazar leaves with a fake salute and a bow before waltzing down the hall that leads to the library’s living quarters.

Maybe it’s just Castiel thinking too much, but the atmosphere takes a turn for the awkward. With Sam fiddling with the dirt under his nails and Dean watching Castiel with enough attention to make goosebumps erupt along his skin, he’s ready to crawl underneath the table in order to continue his research.

Palms sweating, Castiel turns away from the table and into the library hall without a word. He decides to focus on the task at hand and nothing else, because stopping the SS from whatever it is they’re planning is undoubtedly more important that hesitatingly stealing glances at Dean’s lovely eyes, or daydreaming about rough fingers tenderly carding through his hair.

He’s just a passing fancy, Castiel thinks for the umpteenth time that evening.

Sighing, he grabs the first journal he sees.

In the main room, the Winchesters are discussing something in voices far too hushed for Castiel to hear. Dean sounds defensive at one point, and Castiel can pick up Sam’s tired sigh. He briefly wonders if they’re talking about him, or maybe their current predicament with the untranslatable text. A hint of sadness reminiscent of melancholy edges its way into his chest, for reasons Castiel doesn’t want to acknowledge at the moment, or anytime in the foreseeable future for that matter.

When he walks back into the main floor, Castiel notices that Dean has moved to inspect a suit of armor along the east wall, while Sam remains in the same chair as before, inspecting a book Balthazar must have brought in earlier.

“Have you made any progress at all?” Castiel says, just to break the tension that is thick enough to choke on.

Sam looks up from his book, and shakes his head. “No, not really. So far I’ve ruled out Anglo-Saxon, Romanic and Oanish.”

“I really don’t think it’s Scandinavian,” Castiel mutters, for what he’s sure is already the fifth time. “The style is far more similar to Hebrew, actually, but not quite.”

“It would make a lot more sense, if so.”

Castiel frowns as he leans down against the table, holding himself upright by his elbows, but immediately straightens up when the pressure proves too much for his back. Stretching himself out, the fatigue of a long day finally setting in, he notices that Dean is looking at him, unabashed, a slight curl in the corner his lip. It takes him a moment to realize that the position he was just in had been this side of provocative, if not lewd when taken into the wrong context.

Huffing out a breath, Castiel focuses on the text beneath his nose. No more bending over the table.

Dean finally approaches the table again, after a few minutes of aimless drifting along the library, and settles next to Castiel, looking down at the symbols he’s transcribing onto a blank piece of paper.

Neither of them talks for a short while, all three of them lost in their own thoughts and calculations. The storm picks up again, sporadic bolts of lightning making the lights within the library flicker every so often. The tension eventually fades away into somber stillness as the clock ticks on, the night quiet when the hour hand hits two in the morning.

It becomes surprisingly easier to understand the strange glyphs with Dean sitting by his side. He’s wide awake, humming to a song Castiel recognizes but can’t put a name to, and the concoction alleviates the headache that is maddeningly pressing against Castiel’s temples. It may also be lulling him off to sleep, when his eyelids begin dropping upon half-formed words he isn’t aware how he understands enough to translate. Castiel is unsure about their origin, but with the peace Dean offers, he can almost understand them enough to get what the message means.

A hand on his arm startles him, and Castiel blinks blearily at Dean, who is giving him a gentle smile. “You’re out of it, Cas. You should probably get some sleep.”

Sam isn’t sitting across from them anymore, and Castiel vaguely wonders where he’s gone. “What time is it?”

“Almost three,” Dean says, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. “Let’s call it a night. You look like you’re about to pass out there.”

Castiel tries to wave him off, but Dean isn’t having any of it by the way he grips Castiel’s forearm and tugs him to his feet. Grumbling, Castiel slips the half-translated page into John Winchester’s journal before allowing Dean to drag him away.

“Where’s Sam?” Castiel asks, removing his glasses to rub at the corner of his eyes.

“Going through the books he brought from home. He thinks Dad probably left something behind: a clue for us to follow. There’s gotta be something we’re missing.”

“You think Mr. Winchester would have done so?”

“Not a chance,” Dean says, wryly. “But if it’ll set Sam’s mind at ease, then let him scavenge everything. He’s an archeologist; it’s kind of his job to do that.”

Castiel hums his agreement. “But you’re the treasure hunter. Shouldn’t you be helping him? It’s kind of your job to do that,” he says with a chuckle.

They take a turn as they step out of the hall with the Grimm tapestries, and going down the short flight of stairs. Castiel takes a moment to dim the gaslights, and it isn’t until they’re standing in front of his door that Dean sheepishly answers. “I _was_ doing my job.”

“How so?”

“I was looking after treasure.”

Furrowing his brow, it’s only a moment later that Castiel realizes what Dean means. He inhales, sharply, and averts his eyes, but there’s the beginning of a smile that insists on tugging the corner of his mouth. “Oh.” Placing a hand on the doorknob, Castiel can’t bring himself to put a door between them.

It’s ridiculous, silly and unheard of. But Heavens, it makes Castiel’s heart race.

Dean’s face, half obscured in shadow, twitches in what looks to be hesitation. His hand comes up, maybe to touch Castiel’s elbow again, but it jerkily drops away. “Goodnight, Cas,” he says at last, and before Castiel can respond, his back is already retreating into the darkness of the hallway.

They’re both toeing a line that shouldn’t be crossed, but at this very moment, Castiel isn’t sure he’ll be able to continue ignoring it.

Opening his bedroom door, Castiel steps inside to call it a night.

❖

Sam drags in his duffel bag and drops it on the table with a grunt. His room is too dark to scour for potential clues, so he decides to bring them into the main area, where light and a brother can help him out. So far, there isn’t a brother or a librarian in sight.

He doesn’t worry about it, not in the sense of there being a threat, but he does worry about how Dean is handling the situation. Not one for words, Dean’s actions have always spoken the loudest, and the way he looks at Castiel like he’s one of the world’s Seven Wonders has Sam on edge. Granted, Dean is his own man, capable of making his own decisions and dealing with the consequences, but it’s Sam’s responsibility to look after him if he refuses to do so himself.

After the incident with Lisa – Dean’s former lady friend – Sam has learned to stay out of the affairs of the heart. Always one to abide to his little brother’s wishes, Dean had smiled, tipped his hat, and attempted to settle down and have a life that didn’t include hard liquor, willingly dangling over the ledges of temples, and the monthly stay in the big house.

If he’s completely honest with himself, Sam can take the blame for Dean’s bitterness over the past few days. While most of the people they know label Dean’s wandering eye as a sickness, Sam once bought in on that too, insisted that Dean focus on the ladies and to stop acting out. And so Dean listened. They never spoke of that conversation again, but it’s obvious that it didn’t work out.

Dean isn’t in it for the good times, he isn’t doing it just to spite everyone he knows and calls him a menace to society – Dean just… Hell, he can’t even explain what Dean is after. Acceptance? Love? Not that he will ever admit any of this, Sam knows all too well.

But with Castiel, Dean has thrown Sam into one hell of a doozy.

One day, one single day and Dean’s eyes are already softening around their edges, wrinkling whenever he smiles at the sight of ruffled hair and blue eyes. But it was the touches that had given him away. Sam noticed the way Dean keeps touching Castiel’s elbow, or his back when they walked down to dinner earlier that night. He sees it in the way Dean bites back his lewd remarks, and Sam also noticed the way Castiel’s eye seems to twitch.

Maybe Dean’s attention makes him uncomfortable, but Castiel is no small man. If a simple _no_ wouldn’t suffice, Castiel can bodily reject Dean’s advances very well – much like other men have done before. Not that Dean would ever force himself on Castiel… Strangely enough, Castiel gracefully takes Dean’s tacit attempt at flirting and reciprocates it an oddly muted fashion.

From Sam’s vantage point, Dean and Castiel are polar opposites, but hell if there isn’t something there, something powerful enough that in just twelve hours their worlds were flipped upside down by the laws of attraction.

Running a hand through his hair, Sam leans against the ledge of the table, his rear too sore to continue sitting. He vaguely thinks that his sleeping pattern has been shot to hell, and that it’ll be a hassle to get it back to normal, before focusing on one of the books he’s brought along.

It’s a hopeless idea and he knows it, but Sam holds on to that last bit of faith that John left behind a trail of breadcrumbs for them to follow. There’s nothing as he flips through his books, not a single note in sight. Sam drops the last of his books back into his duffle with a defeated sigh.

Sam jumps up from his place against the table when the deathly silence of the library is interrupted by a hurried knock on the door.

Instinctively, he moves towards the knocking, but then thinks better of it. It’s three in the morning, and while Sam is sure that Munich isn’t under curfew, most civilians know better than to walk the streets at this ungodly hour.

When the knocking grows in intensity, rapid and demanding, Sam inches away and immediately rummages through duffle bag for the knife he knows is hidden at the very bottom. Removing a false flap, Sam quickly grabs the knife and stashes in his pant pocket just as the front doors suddenly creak and slam open.

Sam takes several steps back, alarmed by the group of men who spill into the receiving lobby of the library. He thinks about hiding, maybe ducking into one of hallways and looking for Dean to back him up, but one of the men has already spotted him. “Shit.” And unlike their arrival to the German border, there are now six swastikas in the same room as him.

Two officers stand guard at the door, and the other four advances towards Sam with a calculated single-mindedness that puts a chill to Sam’s bones. He warily watches as three of the soldiers rummage through the books on the table, picking and casting aside everything that isn’t of interest, ripping papers or throwing them in piles onto the floor.

Sam feels his stomach give when he sees John’s journal out of the corner of his eye, pinned beneath the heavier tome Castiel had been translating a few hours ago. The corner of the paper he had been writing on sticks out of the cover, and Sam prays that they won’t notice.

The last of the soldiers, the only one who isn’t getting his hands dirty with the bust, approaches Sam with a sincere smile that reminds him of a rabid hound. Long hair, sunken eyes that look haunted and cold, skin pale – the man makes Sam ill. The badges on his black tunic are plenty, and he wears his SS badge with a stale kind of pride.

“It is an honor to meet you, Herr Winchester,” the man says, holding out his hand. He tucks it away behind his back when Sam stares him down. “I’m here for the translation of the text, as I’m sure you know.”

They had been right all along.

Sam lifts his chin in defiance, and makes little move to acknowledge the movement he sees in the shadows of the left hall. He knows Dean is now there, watching the exchange, and waiting for the opportune moment to intervene.

“Terribly rude of me, my apologies. My name is Victor. My intention isn’t to cause any sort of harm, just to take that which we are owed.”

“I owe you nothing,” Sam says, taking a daring step forward. He’s by no means scared of the man, or the fact that may be outgunned.

Victor, who looks more like a man destined to be at home with his wife and children, frowns. He sighs and reaches inside his tunic, pulling out a small revolver that looks too small in his hand. “Professor, give us the text, and we’ll be on our way. There is no need for an altercation unless you wish to become acquainted with my Walther.”

“There is no translation to the text,” Sam says, tersely, as he instinctively flexes his fingers. He’s aware that he’s brought a knife into a gunfight, but that’s never put him off before.

Victor laughs, and it’s a sudden burst of sound that carries on around the room when the others join in. The cocking of guns soon follows when the other five SS draw their arms.

“Herr Milton has had enough time,” Victor says. Raising his gun, he levels it with Sam’s forehead. “You have ten seconds to give it to me…” He moves his hands to the left, aiming the pistol in the direction of the hall. “Or your brother gets a hole in his head.” He maneuvers the gun to tap his own forehead, making sure Sam gets the gravity of the situation.

Shoulders tensing and sweat forming on the back of his neck, Sam stomps down on the urge to shuffle his feet. He’s not scared, but a distinct hint of anxiety is trying to wedge its way in. A military upbringing had John teaching his boys how to react in the face of immediate danger; keeping a level head and never showing all of your cards are two of the most important lessons he could have taught them.

“My brother isn’t here.”

“Oh, come now. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

Victor pulls the trigger, and in that same second Sam reaches for his knife. He moves fast, not sparing a thought at the other men who are now yelling out in a flourish of German, and grabs a firm hold of Victor’s wrist and twists. The gun doesn’t fall away, much to Sam’s dismay, and instead he’s met with an elbow to the nose. Sam stumbles a few steps back, feeling blood all the way down past his lip.

Adrenaline peaks, and there’s nothing but a sharp whistle in his ears when several guns go off at once. He hits the floor and rolls underneath the table for cover. From there he can see Dean’s feet swiftly move across the floor, disabling one of the soldiers who have opened fire.

Sam springs to his feet again, grabbing the closest chair and swinging it with so much force he can feel a muscle cramp along his neck, but the thick wood collides with another soldier’s back with a satisfying crunch. The man hits the floor with a heavy thump, immobile.

Victor is nowhere to be seen when Sam frantically scans the plume of dust as bullets pulverize the marble of the desk and floor. There are shards of wood and flying papers, but Sam catches the handgun Dean throws his way with little effort. They open fire, aiming at the feet, for their intention is to disable and not kill. Not yet.

Another soldier howls out in pain and doubles over, and Sam throws a quick glance to his side. His blood runs cold when he sees yet another nameless soldier knock Dean to the floor.

“Dean!” But Victor is there again, catching Sam off guard and head butting him so hard that he’s left reeling in place.

Sam’s fist connects with Victor’s jaw, and he can feel the sharp give of bone beneath his knuckles. For a brief moment, he can see Dean pinned to the floor, receiving punch after punch to his face, blood splattering the dusty floor. Sam goes to move, pull the son of a bitch off his brother, but Victor is still on him, anger and hatred blinding him.

Height advantage be damned, Sam grunts when a sharp pain shoots down his spine. Distress strikes him when he feels a rush of cold liquid gush down his back, and the moment of hesitation costs him a kick to the back of his knee, making him plummet to the floor. A boot digs into his spine as he struggles to get free, but the last thing Sam sees is Dean’s bloodied face, before a blow to the back of his head renders him unconscious.

❖

A faint throb, cracking skin, something cold and hard pressing to his nose – or is it his cheek? Sounds are muffled. His eyelids have an orange backdrop as bursts of light and color flutter around aimlessly, and Dean overall feels like he’s been repeatedly run over by a tank. There isn’t a single bone in his body that doesn’t hurt, or a single muscle that doesn’t cramp in protest of him moving.

There’s a hand carding through his hair, and then lightly tapping at his cheek. A voice calls to him, and it almost sounds like whoever is speaking is underwater. That can’t be good.

Dean moans when he finally decides to open his eyes, but he’s still seeing orange, even when Castiel’s worry-creased face comes into view. “Hey gorgeous,” Dean croaks, sinking back into whatever softness has been placed behind his head. A pillow, most likely.

Then it’s Sam who pops up, opposite of Cas, staring down at Dean with a frown that can rival any child he’s ever been faced with. There’s a cut on his lip, and his left eye looks swollen, but there isn’t a speck of blood on him. Dean blows out a relieved sigh.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam ventures into asking, only to crack a smirk when Dean gives him a dirty look. At least, he tries to give him a dirty look, especially with how disproportionate his face currently feels.

“I’m alive.” Dean swats Castiel’s hand away, which insists on pressing ice to his forehead. “What the hell happened?”

Castiel sits back on his haunches, giving Dean the space he needs in order to sit up. “I came when I heard the gunfire. The man named Victor ordered them to cease fire the moment I walked in. He didn’t mutter a single word,” Castiel says, nearly whispering as he swabs Dean’s cheek with a damp towel. “They left. Just like that. All this chaos and destruction and then they just… they just left.”

Dean nods his head when he sees Castiel’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears. As he averts his eyes elsewhere, Dean realizes the reason for Castiel’s distraught countenance.

The floor is littered with bullet holes, the marble crushed to the point where the polished surface has turned gritty and rough. The old suits of armor that stood guard along the library walls have been decimated to heaps of dented rubble strewn over the dusty floor. Tapestries have been torn to shreds, windows shattered, and books were made holey by the merciless rain of bullets. Not even the table they had convened at was spared, having had its legs hacked off, and the word _Berlin_ carved into it. They also carved swastikas on every corner of the table.

It had been an act of cruelty and spite, and Dean can’t bury the bubbling loathing he feels threatening to spill out of his stomach. His breath turns labored, ears red hot, because they didn’t just destroy a library – they destroyed a part of Castiel.

“Calm down,” Castiel says, his voice soft and soothing as he tries to push Dean back onto the pillow. They’re sitting on the floor, amongst the chaos. “What matters is that you’re both all right.”

“They do anything to you?” Dean isn’t sure if his question is directed at either Sam or Castiel, but he figures he’ll take both answers. Two birds with one stone.

“I got a busted lip, probably a few fractured ribs,” Sam answers, shifting into a more comfortable position. “Other than that, I think I’ll live to see another day.”

Dean turns his eyes to Castiel, and waits for his answer.

“I’m fine. A bit shaken, but I guess that’s to be expected.”

Satisfied, Dean shuts his eyes and asks, “This Victor jobbie, you know him?”

“No,” Castiel says. “Sam had told me his name. He introduced himself when he asked for the translated text.”

Dean opens his eyes. “I knew it. I knew this was a fucking trap from the beginning, didn’t I tell you, Sam? Goddamn Nazi motherfuckers!” Not thinking the action all the way through, Dean slaps a hand over his face, only to wince and tense under the colorful burst of pain. “They took it, didn’t they?”

The stony silence in the library is all the answer he needs.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

“Our best guess,” Sam explains, “is that they took the journal to Berlin. Why else would they write the word on the table? More sloppy clues, which means it’s probably another trap.” Sam sounds tired, his voice hoarse.

“A trap we can do nothing other than walk right into,” Castiel says. “Without the text, there will be nothing we can do. We still don’t know what they’re after, or how powerful this artifact may be.”

“Right, yeah. You expect us to walk right into a Nazi den? Are you freaking nuts?”

“I don’t see any other options, Dean. If you do, then please enlighten me.”

“Gee, Cas, I don’t know. If you’d give me a chance to come up with something other than tying the knot on my own noose, then probably I could.”

“If you two need a moment,” Sam interrupts, fighting back a smirk. “I’m going to be over there, helping Balthazar clean up.”

Sam scurries off, shaking his head all the way until he meets up with Balthazar at the far end of the room.

Dean lapses into silence, glaring at the ceiling he only just realizes is hand-painted. The mural depicts small cherubs sitting on round clouds, some picking grapes and others playing tiny harps. On the corner, he sees the beginning of a Greek temple with hanging mounds of flowers, but the image fades into white mist, having apparently been abandoned before the mural was completed.

“Me and Sam will go to Berlin, grab the journal and come back here.”

“Dean—”

“We know how to deal with this type of situation. They get messy sometimes, violent, even.”

“I’m going with you two,” Castiel says, decisive and final. “I am now a part of this venture, and I refuse to sit back and allow you to do the dirty work.”

Dean laughs, humorless as he finally sets his eyes on Castiel. “Tell me, Cas. Have you ever fired a gun?”

Tension settles along Castiel’s jaw line as he clenches it, cheekbones shifting under scruffy cheeks. There’s a coldness in his eyes that makes Dean’s stomach flip.

“No,” he answers, and although it isn’t exactly a lie, Dean can tell that it isn’t the plain truth either. “That doesn’t mean I can’t protect myself. Besides, what if they deciphered it? You’d only be wasting time by driving back here for me to have another look at the text.”

After twenty-four hours of shameless gallivanting, that first sliver of doubt finally rears its ugly head. Call it a hunch, or maybe it’s just common sense, considering that Dean doesn’t know the first thing about Castiel – the stranger with the lovely blue eyes. It isn’t the lethal kind of mistrust Dean normally feels towards everyone he doesn’t know, but it’s a nagging sensation at the back of his mind. He shouldn’t trust so explicitly this early on, anyways.

“They destroyed my home,” Castiel mumbles, taking Dean completely unawares. And suddenly, Dean understands where he’s coming from.

Sighing with defeat, Dean relents to Castiel’s request. “You do as I say at all times. If I say you stay in the car, then you stay in the damn car. I say run, you run and you don’t look back. If I say shoot…” Dean leaves the sentence hanging, licking his lips as he locks eyes with Castiel, willing him to understand.

Thankfully, Castiel nods tersely. “I understand.”

“Good.” Dean struggles to sit up again, trying to fight off vertigo. “I’d kill for some coffee.”

“Aaron is out fetching us a medic. I’ll ask him to make some once he gets back.” With a minute smile, Castiel shifts on the floor so that he’s facing Dean, and dabs at the crusted blood on the corner of his mouth. “God knows we all need some.”

It’s still dark out, and Dean feels like Death incarnate, but with Castiel looking at him like his being alive is God’s most precious gift, Dean can’t help but smile back, but he disguises it with a cough.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean had gotten a fractured nose and two swollen eyes out of the ordeal, and most likely a concussion with the dizziness and constant nausea he’s feeling, or that may as well be blamed on the bumpy road they’re taking to Berlin. Just to spite him, Mother Nature has granted him the first sunny day since arriving at the German border.

They leave the library at nine in the morning, giving them all some time to rest before their big rendezvous in the capital city. Sam snores for two hours, while Castiel does his best at keeping Dean awake (without falling asleep himself) out of fear of the aforementioned concussion. Frankly, neither of them are prepared for a six hour drive to Berlin, much less for navigating through a lair of vipers in search of John’s journal.

With Castiel behind the wheel, Sam sitting shotgun, and Dean lying down in the back seat of Balthazar’s Rolls-Royce Phantom, it’s one hell of a long drive, made more so by the thick silence between the three of them.

“Can I sleep now?” Dean says, and for a moment he thinks that his query has gone unnoticed under the loud purring of the engine.

Sam looks over his shoulder, then down at Dean, as if he’s only just realizing that he’s been stretched out uncomfortably over the leather upholstery. “As long as you wake up when we call you.”

Dean isn’t sure whether he replies or not, but before he knows it, Sam’s already shaking him awake.

❖

Berlin is bustling with activity at mid-afternoon, and under different circumstances, Sam would have laughed at Dean’s extreme edginess. Back straight and hand hovering over the handgun tucked beneath his bomber jacket, Dean looks about ready to jet at the smallest movement, like cornered prey waiting for the predator to make its move. Sam doesn’t blame him.

The cobblestoned streets are dry and clean, and the air smells sweet as local cafés bake their goods and place them on display. There’s laughter and lively chatter, music drifting through open windows and doors. The only difference from Delémont would be the amount of people running about. It reminds Sam of the Fourth of July back in Kansas, when John and Mary took him and Dean out for a picnic in the park. Celebration is in the air, and while Sam will always be inclined to enjoying cultural festivities, the red, white and black flags that are being mounted along the street make him uneasy.

The three of them go ignored by the pigtailed girls who run along the street, all but one, who accidentally bumps into Castiel. She gives him a polite smile and curtsies, and Sam sees the band around her right arm before she runs off to join with the rest. She can’t be more than fifteen, but Sam has read enough to understand the connotations of her outfit.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Sam hears Dean hiss at Castiel. “As if it isn’t bad enough, looks like the big cheese is going to be here.”

Castiel frowns at him, self-consciously fixing the lapels of his suit jacket. “Berlin isn’t as bad as you think it is,” he says, edging on annoyed. “Don’t you celebrate political campaigns in America?”

Dean looks scandalized. “You can’t possibly compare one thing with the other!”

“I can, too. Not every person in this country approves of the Reich’s practices, Dean. Stop acting like an immature, bigoted tourist.” Castiel accents his remark with a stern look, and Sam can’t help but nod his approval.

“We don’t murder people,” Dean continues like a petulant child. “We don’t rape, we don’t—don’t select who gets to live or how people should do so.”

Castiel comes to a stop in the middle of the street, looking Dean in the eye with as much anger as he can possibly express without physically lashing out. “When I was five years old, my sister was abducted from her school. It took six months before she returned home, three months for her to give birth, and years for her to look me in the eye and speak a single word. We lived in a small town in Virginia.”

The gravity of Castiel’s words grounds Sam, twisting his stomach in unpleasant knots and undoubtedly doing the same to Dean.

“I, by no means, approve of the Nazi party’s goals and beliefs. But they are not the only evil upon this earth, Dean Winchester. Don’t insult me.” Castiel takes a step back, pushing his glasses further up the ridge of his nose. He looks off balance for a brief second before clearing his throat. “I suggest we eat something before the establishments become too full.”

Sam isn’t surprised to see Dean nod in agreement, but he is surprised at the lack of enthusiasm at the mention of food. Then again, with their current surroundings, Sam understands where Dean’s mulishness comes from.

Castiel leads them to a charming brasserie just off the main street. There’s little debate on whether eating indoors would be more sensible than taking a seat at the small tables outside, especially with the increase of people making preparations for the festivities.

Beer and cold-cut sandwiches all around, they settle on the table farthest from the doors, away from the irritating ruckus.

Sam finds his black forest ham to be a little on the warm side, but he doesn’t complain. The lettuce is cold and crunchy, and the bread is soft and freshly baked. It’s a feast for the senses, and judging by the way Dean’s eyes close after his first bite, he seems to think so too. He doesn’t even complain about the greens.

“Your contact...” Sam says, carefully looking around to make sure no one is listening in. “Are you sure we can trust him?”

Placing the pint of beer back on the table, Castiel reaches for a napkin and dabs his mouth. “Ms. Bradbury is the most trustworthy person I know. At least where personal business is involved.”

“Wait, Bradbury’s a lady?” Dean says, speaking around a mouthful of pretzel. “And she’s a pilot, you said?”

“Her father was a deserter; served in the Air Force before he met his wife in Egypt. Ms. Bradbury took to the skies just like her father did. She’s been stationed in Austria these last couple of weeks, and I called in a favor.” Castiel’s smile is fond as he looks down at his sandwich. “She should be arriving shortly.”

A pilot who happens to be a lady. Sam chuckles to himself, and can’t help but think about how thrilled Jessica would be about that.

The amusement quickly gives way to nostalgia, thoughts of Jessica leaving him feeling lonely despite having Dean along for the ride. He misses the smell of her hair, and the softness of her cheeks when she presses them to his with a small and secretive laugh.

When he comes to, Sam is greeted with a grumbling Dean. He doesn’t ask what he’s complaining about, but if the annoyed look Castiel is sporting is anything to go by, Sam is sure Dean’s said something stupid yet again.

These two. Sam doesn’t really know what to make of them at that moment in time, other than if left alone, they would either kill each other or roll around the hay. The sandwich tastes none too good at the thought.

“All right, so our contingency plan consists on, what, exactly? Getting on a plane and leaving?” Sam pointedly says, trying to rescue an already awkward and tense day. “Does the word _Luftwaffe_ mean anything in this context? We can’t exactly navigate German airspace without considering the possibility that they’ll already be airborne. They’ll shoot us down without a second thought.”

“Not if I can help it,” says a new voice.

Sam blinks up at the newcomer, and he has to admit that of all things to expect, this wasn’t exactly it.

“I can handle a plane better than any kraut between England and Australia,” she says with a flourish, flipping her long red hair. “Charlie Bradbury at your service.”

“Wow,” is all Dean offers, looking impressed and more than a little puzzled.

“Wow yourself, mister.” Charlie looks briefly to her side and says a handful of things in German to a person sitting at the neighboring table. When the man waves her off, she takes the available chair and pulls it to sit beside Sam.

She looks to be about his age, maybe a bit younger, but it’s really hard to tell. Small, thin, and lively, Charlie reminds Sam of the little sister he never had – and doesn’t really want. Judging by her smile alone, she looks to be quite the troublemaker; an annoying older brother is enough, please and thank you.

“Here for the debriefing, so you better make this quick. Wouldn’t be wise to be seen mingling with you lot.”

“Right,” Dean says, popping the last of his pretzel into his mouth and rudely sucking the salt from his fingertips. Sam makes sure not to glance at Castiel. “Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with the righteous law of this place.”

Charlie smirks. “Mm, I’m not exactly bound to the law, Mr…?”

“Winchester.”

“You got a first name to go with that?”

Dean hesitates for a moment. “Dean. My name’s Dean.”

“Well, you see, _Dean_ ,” she begins, before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “I don’t have a firm nationality, so it’s not like I abide by much of the rules. I was raised living beneath the big man’s eye. Slipping in and out undetected? Practically my job description.”

Both Sam and Dean simultaneously turn from looking at Charlie, to looking at Castiel. “You get involved with shady people this frequently?” Sam asks, but there’s no malice behind it, just incredulous amusement.

“What is she, a coyote?”

“I’m right here. Plus, I prefer the term _sky pirate_.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, like he can’t believe a single thing he’s hearing. “A _sky pirate?_ ”

Charlie nods, and Castiel takes a swig of his beer. “I get around,” Castiel explains with a shrug.

“You what?” Dean nearly barks, but Charlie’s hand slaps his bicep.

“Relax, bucko. He doesn’t mean it that way. Castiel’s a good boy, and he’s not my type.”

Sam sees that Dean wants to say something else, but thankfully turns his attention to his drink without muttering a smart remark.

“The plan?” Charlie prods, looking over her shoulder for the third time.

“All you need to know about the plan,” Sam says, holding out his hands before him, “is that we have a one hour window to achieve it. We need you on standby.”

The problem lies within them having no actual plan. Without a heading, or the slightest clue as to where to start looking for the journal, they’re in the dark. Berlin is the only thing they’ve been given, and now they’re here. From there on, where they go is anybody’s guess.

“That’s it? You need me on standby? You gotta give me something, hombre.”

“A man named Victor has what we need,” Castiel says, covering whatever is left of his meal with a napkin and pushing away the red basket it’s served in. “Are you familiar with the name?”

Charlie sobers up at the name, and starts to nervously wring her hands. “Hawkins? Victor Hawkins?”

“He’s SS,” Sam offers. The man never gave his last name. “Green eyes, fair hair…”

“Scar on his left eye?” Charlie says, and sinks into her seat when Sam nods. “Boys, you’re in serious trouble.”

“What? Why?” Dean asks, leaning to listen at her lowered voice.

“Forget SS, Hawkins is Gestapo.” There’s a collective intake of breath around the table that makes Charlie shake her head. “The bloke used to be a part of the American military. Or so my sources say.”

“How can an American serve in the German military? That’s unheard of,” Castiel reasons, leaning forward against his elbows. “The Fuhrer wouldn’t have that.”

Charlie shrugs. “The man knows his way around the park. Invaluable knowledge of the enemy forces, no doubt. No one really knows how the Gestapo works.”

Dean mutters a curse as he sits back. “What do we do now? How the hell are we even going to get near him?”

“Well,” Charlie continues, “tonight at the square, he’ll be there.” She fidgets in her seat as she reaches for a lock of her hair and absently begins to twirl it. “They’re all going to be there. The SS, Luftwaffe, Hitler.”

“If this doesn’t smell rotten...” Sam mutters, more to himself than anything, but he sees Castiel nod out of the corner of his eye.

“The German Student Association…it’s a thing, now. The Fuhrer wants to grace the occasion.”

“A book burning,” Castiel says, his voice emotionless. “They’re preparing for a book burning.”

Charlie worries her bottom lip, before slowly nodding her head.

“They wouldn’t burn the journal, would they?” Sam doubts it, but the question is out before he can think better of it.

“I don’t think they’d risk it,” Castiel says.

“Unless they already have the translation,” Dean adds.

“Only suggestion I can make is to find Hawkins as soon as possible, somehow, magically, wrestle this journal off of him, and make for the clearing,” Charlie says. “Behind city hall, there’s a train graveyard, perfect hiding place in case anyone comes after you. Follow the pattern _red-red-black-blue-red_ and it’ll lead you to a thick brush. You’ll come across a clearing after about a ten minute walk—I’ll be there.”

Before anyone can say another word, Charlie is already getting to her feet.

“Thank you, Ms. Bradbury,” Castiel says, subdued and troubled, but sounding grateful nonetheless. “In advance.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says with a wink. “I owed you one, Milton.” Fixing her military edition jacket, she gives them a small wave. “The… activity… begins tonight at eight. You have one hour to reach the clearing, or I’m gone.”

“Understood,” Sam says, reaching out to shake her hand.

Charlie beams at him, and firmly shakes his hand. “The best of luck to the three of you.” She turns with a flurry of red hair, and with her hands inside her pockets, she struts out through the front door.

“Okay, so this just went from bad to impossible,” Dean says, running a hand across his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell are we going to do?”

“We acquire the journal,” Castiel says, eyes hard on the table as he nods his head once, firmly. “And then we make it up as we go.”

“That’s insane,” Dean counters.

“Sure beats any other plan we’ve got. Which are all, at this point, nonexistent,” Sam says, grabbing his beer and tipping back the pint. He’s suddenly feeling very parched, mostly due to the anxiety of the situation.

“Get the journal, right. But first, how do you plan on slipping into a Nazi beehive unnoticed?” Dean is bordering on growling, lips pressed into a thin line even while speaking.

“I think I’ve got an idea,” Castiel mutters, almost absently.

Sam tries to follow his gaze, looking through a throng of people gathered on the street outside. What he spots, standing there in regal black, makes him smirk.

❖

The pyre’s snaps and crackles are drowned out by the live band that plays a spirited march.

A chorus of hundreds, perhaps even thousands of spectators join in on the celebration, all of them wearing joyful smiles and punching the air in a symbol of empowerment. Every youth and soldier carries the words ‘down with the un-German spirit’ emblazoned in their eyes and their fierce cries.

The unending clip-clop-clip-clop of boots thunder to the march’s rhythm, as thousands of SS officers and soldiers parade around the burning pyre of books with their flags and eagles held high.

It’s a spectacle meant to impress, and that it does, if it weren’t for the terrible message it stands for.

The night is humid, and the nearby fire only serves to make Dean more miserable.

“I hate you,” Dean says to Castiel as they hide behind a military issued tank. “I loathe you and every single twisted thought in that brainy head of yours.” He doesn’t really mean it, only he does, because Dean Winchester has never felt this conflicted about clothing in his life.

“Be quiet,” Castiel reprimands, pressing a finger to his lips.

They slink over to the corner of the tank, Castiel holding out a hand to balance against the gritty wheel. Dean keeps his distance out of fear of dirtying his outfit.

Under the cover of darkness, Dean trusts his cuts and bruises will go unnoticed by the sea of people.

“Do you see him?”

Castiel puts a hand to Dean’s shoulder to hold him back, keeping him hidden behind the tank. “I see Sam. Then again, he is really hard to miss.”

Dean shrugs at the obvious statement. “I mean Victor. Do you see Victor?”

“Not yet.” Castiel is quiet for a moment, before saying, “I see the Fuhrer.”

Curiosity getting the best of him, Dean sneaks closer. He’s aware that his chest is molded along Castiel’s back in order to catch a glimpse, but Dean is feeling too irritated to have any kind of bodily reaction. He’ll focus on being this close to Castiel when he’s not wearing a forcefully-attained Nazi uniform.

Dean should probably feel bad about the kid currently hogtied in the alley behind the shoe store, but he wants to call it payback for all of the terrible things the soldier has done, or probably would have done if left unchecked. The dick also punched Castiel across the jaw when Dean had moved in, and that didn’t sit too well with him.

Straightening up and keeping to the shadows, Dean finally catches a glimpse of the podiums set above the swirling mass of people. Standing there, with his hand outstretched towards his parade, is none other than the dictator himself.

“There!” Castiel calls out before he remembers himself. “Along the west hallway, see? He just disappeared behind the sixth pillar.”

Tearing his attention away from the Fuhrer, Dean quickly searches the shadowed corridor.

There is a small amount of people mingling between the towering pillars. Some of them are watching the parade while the others talk among themselves. It takes Dean a minute to distinguish Victor among them; the black uniforms all looking the same from this far a distance.

“You sure that’s him?” Dean asks, stepping back and nervously pulling at the ends of his jacket. “You really think he’ll have the journal on him?”

“Yes, and maybe,” Castiel answers without turning away from his spot. “The plan is to interrogate him, either way.”

“What about Charlie?”

Finally looking back at Dean, Castiel offers him a nice smile. “Despite Charlie’s warning, she won’t leave without us.”

Castiel is a terrible liar, Dean decides, but he’ll give the guy points for trying.

“Right, so, all I have to do is walk up to the guy, ask him what he knows, and then make it a run for it.” Dean runs a hand down his face in exasperation. “What can possibly go wrong?”

“A lot of things, if you want me to be honest.”

Despite the fact that he might be about to initiate a suicide mission, Dean can’t help but find Castiel’s inability to pick up on sarcasm endearing.

“Let’s hope nothing goes awry then,” Dean says, clearing his throat and flexing his fingers in preparation for what may be one of the craziest things he’s ever done in the name of archaeology. “Wish me luck?”

The look on Castiel’s face is torn between wonder and unease, with a soft smile that is accompanied by a wrinkled brow. It’s no different from the look Sam gives him every time Dean goes off on his own, but Sam is his brother, and they’ve been through Hell and back together. Castiel is virtually a stranger.

Or perhaps the look is that of general concern, and Dean is looking too far into things in hope of finding something good for once. Either way, now is not the time to be thinking about this sort of thing.

“Good luck,” Castiel says, and places a hand over Dean’s shoulder.

God does he try not to, but Dean’s eyes drift down to Castiel’s mouth for a split second before looking up at his eyes again. Dean was thinking more along the lines of a good luck kiss, and he’s willing to bet something grand that the same thought crosses Castiel’s mind, if the way those blue eyes stare at him so nakedly is anything to go by. The way Castiel licks his lips is a good indication too.

When Castiel’s hand drops away from his shoulder a moment later, Dean firmly nods his head in order to steel his thoughts. If he survives the night, he’ll kiss Castiel senseless.

A collective shout from the crowd startles them both, and once Dean realizes it’s just a part of the celebration, he takes it as his cue to set this not-plan into action.

Dean leaves Castiel hidden behind the tank as he makes his way through the cluster of spectators, muttering apologies in German as he tries and fails to not shove or step on people’s toes. Dean never considered himself to be claustrophobic, but the masses pushing and pulling and calling out chants he doesn’t understand half of are making him want to run as far away from this place as quickly as possible.

He tries to blend in and be inconspicuous, when he finally breaks free of the stench of beer and sweat surrounding him, reaching the marble steps leading to the lofty outdoors hallway.

His hands are sweaty and his knees feel unstable, but Dean pushes on with a steely face that betrays nothing of the internal rattling of nerves.

The thundering of boots sound louder here, clearer, with the absence of the crowds clamour. It’s a steady tempo that almost feels soothing, and Dean finds himself drumming his fingers to the beat against the stiff material over his thigh.

The fire is hotter, brighter, making the uniform stick uncomfortably to his skin and choke around his neck.

Overwhelmed, Dean stops between the first two pillars to catch his breath.

He’s conscious to keep his back straight and feet apart, hands clasped behind his back as he looks on at the festival. The swirling of black, red, and orange all mixing in spectacle makes his gut churn.

Out there, people are dying violent and bloody. Children, men, women. Unlike the Axis, bullets and bombs don’t discriminate.

Angered by the thought, Dean finds determination in his indignation. He has a job to do – they _all_ have – and he’ll see it through to the end. They will find the artifact, and stop the bad guys from winning another fight.

Dean turns to look down the hallway in search of his target, across the striped shadows the columns cast across the marble floor. About a dozen people file out of a door Dean hadn’t noticed shrouded in the shadows, all of them talking in hushed voices. A woman says something in a hurry, and is quickly shushed by a man in civilian clothing.

Dean spots Victor slipping in through the door.

Discreetly placing a hand over the revolver tucked in his pocket, Dean hurriedly walks down the corridor, giving a curt nod to a woman who greets him as she briskly walks by.

He lingers outside for a short moment until the others have dispersed into heavy conversations, none of them paying Dean an ounce of attention as he inches closer to the door opened just a crack. Casting a wary glance to both sides, making sure that no one is watching, Dean creeps inside.

Two armed guards flank the door, and Dean only realizes this once he’s inside. They both turn to look at him.

Both guards look puzzled by his presence, but the one on the left startles Dean when a hint of recognition sparks on his face, and puzzlement morphs into severe alertness. Thinking fast, Dean throws them both off with a hurried “ _Hail Hitler!_ ”.

The one guard who doesn’t recognize him is dumb enough to salute, and Dean makes quick of disarming him in two simple and swift motions. A hand to the muzzle, and one to the wrist, twisting both until the guard’s hold slackens enough for Dean to pull the rifle out of his hands. Dean jams the butt against the guard’s nose, making him take a dizzying step backwards. He swings around and aims the rifle at the second guard, who already has a handgun level to Dean’s forehead.

“Where is he?” Dean spits out, cocking the gun and taking a step back to keep both guards within sight. “Where’s Victor?”

“ _Du kannst mich mal_ ,” the guard who recognized him, one of Victor’s cronies, grits out.

“No idea what you just said but screw you too, buddy.”

The guard with a now bleeding nose is muttering a string of what are probably profanities.

“Well, out with it,” Dean prompts, gesturing with the gun for them to tell him. “I haven’t got all night.”

“There is no rush, Herr Winchester,” Victor calls out as he enters the empty room, hands behind his back and a pleased smile on his face. “Let’s chat over a drink, shall we?”

Hesitating for a moment, Dean orders the guards to join Victor’s side. At Victor’s nod, they obey.

“I’m on official business,” Dean says, standing so that his back is facing the wall, near enough to the door in case he has to make a run for it. “Afraid I can’t stay long.”

The rattle of silverware draws all of their attention to the back of the room, where a young man walks in with a tray lavished with fruit and teacups. The young man murmurs an apology for interrupting as he sets the tray on the single square table in the room, before hurrying away.

Dean figures this room is just an antechamber of sorts.

“I’m going to have to insist,” Victor says, elegantly pointing his hand towards the table. “Come.”

Dean is ready to bet that the tea is poisoned. “And I’m going to have to decline,” he says mockingly, giving Victor a fake smile. “I’m here for the journal, so cough it up.”

Music drifts in from the outside, the smell of burning paper even stronger inside the tiny room they’re in.

Rifle held firmly in place, Dean watches as Victor turns towards the table and begins to prepare the tea. He’s tipping the pot over a tiny cup when he says, “The journal will be delivered to me shortly.” Dropping two sugar cubes into the cup, he gives it precisely two stirs before picking the saucer up from the tray and placing it on the table. “In the meantime, why not indulge me?”

When Dean doesn’t grace him with an answer, Victor continues.

“While reviewing your father’s annotations, I noticed a handful of amendments in the margins of the glyph segment. Along with the spare commentary written by Herr Milton, I’ve deduced that none of you poor bastards have any idea what you’re looking for. Am I right?”

Dean sneers, but otherwise doesn’t move from his spot against the wall. “Slow progress, but we’re getting there.”

“Tell me now, Herr Winchester. Are you familiar with the Ankh of Thoth?”

A muddled image half-forms in Dean’s mind. While he has no idea what Victor is talking about, he does know what an ankh is, and if memory serves him right, Thoth is the Egyptian god of the moon. In previous travels, Dean has heard of the Staff of Ra, but never of the Ankh of Thoth.

“Can’t say I am,” Dean says, and relaxes his finger off the trigger. 

“The Ankh of Thoth is believed to be a key to a city of unimaginable riches, and power unlike the world has ever seen.” Victor goes along preparing his own cup of tea.

“That’s what you’re after? El Dorado?” Dean snorts at how ridiculous it sounds. “Better off looking for Atlantis, if you want my opinion.”

“Cities of ancient wisdom are prominent in plenty of cultures, not only in South America.” His voice is smooth like a parent gently warning their child. It makes Dean’s blood boil.

“Great, then what do you need us for? If you know what you’re after, then why have us translate the text?”

The way Victor sips his tea so calmly grates on Dean’s nerves. There’s something more to this, and Dean hates not knowing what that is. The Ankh of Thoth, a city of riches – what part do the Winchesters play into all of this? Victor seems to have what he needs, so why bother with the extra expense? Unless…

“It’s a map. The text is a map and you can’t read it,” Dean says, mouth curling at the sides in a triumphant smirk. But that still doesn’t explain it. Castiel is the translator, not them.

“No, we can’t. To right this, we lured you here.” Victor smiles and politely tips his head. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Dean shrugs, and moves his hands over the rifle as a reminder that he’s still armed and plenty dangerous. “Nah, not really. We knew it was a trap, you stupid son of a bitch.”

“I’m glad!” Victor’s voice booms out a laugh, and both guards join in. “I am really glad that you two decided to stick together. Thank you, Herr Winchester, for making this so much easier.”

Unsure of what he means, Dean takes a hesitant step forward, his finger back on the trigger and ready to retaliate if need be. However, before Dean can mutter a single word, the back door swings open again, and what he sees sends his heart racing with fear.

Two guards – bigger than the ones by Victor’s side – haul Castiel in and try to hold him still, with their meaty hands digging into his biceps. Castiel looks like a scrawny kid as he struggles between them, his glasses knocked askew on his nose. Dean sees a busted lip and a bloody nose.

“You have delivered, _Dean_ ,” Victor says, placing the teacup on the table. “And being the reasonable man that I am, I will give you something in exchange.”

One of the guards holding Castiel pulls the journal from the inside of his tunic, and hands it over to Victor, who absently takes it. Victor’s beady eyes are apprising Castiel in a way that makes Dean squirm uncomfortably where he stands by the door.

“I will trade you John Winchester’s journal, for the sweet _engel_. What do you say?” Victor cards his fingers through Castiel’s hair, before hooking them under his chin to tip up his head. He then straightens Castiel’s glasses.

The urge to vomit is strong in Dean’s stomach. “How about you give me both and we’ll call it a deal?”

“Let’s not be unfair, now. No harm will come to him, you have my word.”

Dean instinctively takes a step forward, and Victor’s guards mimic the movement. The previously disarmed guard now has a knife in his right hand and is inching closer to Dean as the conversation goes on.

“Let him go,” Dean says, voice hard and relentless. “Let him go, or so help me God I will put you all in the ground.”

Victor raises an amused eyebrow at the threat. “Protective – nearly possessive… my. Oh my, Herr Winchester. What have you gotten yourself into?”

Dean’s eyes turn quickly to Castiel, who is looking back with tight and well-masked curiosity.

He quickly turns his gaze back to Victor.

The addition of Castiel in Dean’s life is proving to be nothing but a distraction that can easily cost him the lives of many. Considering Dean’s luck, Castiel may be looking at a dark future as collateral damage.

“What can I say? The guy’s our key to finding this thing before you people do. Damn sure I’m gonna get possessive.” It’s a weak rationale, and Dean knows it.

An oppressing silence settles in the small room, one that’s only broken by the labored breathing of the guard with the broken nose, and the muted music outside the walls. Dean can see how Victor debates his next move, with his eyes shifting smoothly from Castiel to Dean, and lastly to the journal in his gloved hand.

“You could always have neither,” Victor says, holding the journal to his chest. “I can throw the journal into the pit, for all I care. I had a copy of the original text transcribed into my personal journal.” He smiles, and the gentle curve of his mouth is almost fatherly.

Dean’s fingers fidget on the rifle, unsure of what to do or say when they are all hanging precariously by a thread. A single misplaced breath can unravel what little progress they have made so far, and with both he and Castiel in such compromising positions, it’s hard not to hesitate.

But then Castiel catches his attention.

The movement is subtle, with Castiel slowly licking his lips in complete concentration.

Stunned, Dean immediately looks away, only to cast Castiel hesitant stares out of the corner of his eye. What Dean notices is a pattern, and he has to tamp down the new wave of excitement at the realization.

Dean sees it when Castiel minutely cants his head to the side.

There’s a clock on the wall, way up above him, and Dean’s hold on the gun tightens.

_8:48 p.m._

_The airplane._

Twelve minutes. They have twelve minutes to grab the journal, run through a swirling mass of Nazis, cross the clearing, and board the airplane. Time is running out, and Dean has no plan of action.

“It isn’t my intention to be rude,” Castiel says, his voice startling them all out of their respective reveries. “But I’m afraid I have an appointment.”

There’s a beat of silence, to which Victor answers with an incredulous laugh. “I beg your pardon?”

 

It’s a quick blur of movement when the other two guards step forward, both unsure on who to attack, and Dean does them the favor of opening fire towards the floor. Bullet meets marble with loud chinks and chips as Dean steps closer to the guards, driving them back, away from the front door.

Ears ringing once he runs out of bullets, Dean jams the butt of the rifle, again, into the guard’s already broken nose, earning him an agonized cry. He swiftly turns to roundhouse kick the second guard, sending him to the ground with a heavy thump that Dean feels rather than hears.

Looming over the fallen man, Dean kicks the pistol out of his hand and takes it, pulling out his own from inside his jacket as well. Once he makes sure that neither guard will be getting up any time soon, Dean turns to Victor.

Victor – who is wrestling the guard previously holding Castiel for his revolver – has a bleeding lip.

Dean doesn’t have time to laugh before Castiel is urgently pulling him by his sleeve towards the door. He has the journal clutched to his chest, and he’s saying something Dean can’t hear over the ringing, but after a split second, Dean realizes what it is.

“ _Others are coming_ ,” Castiel’s lips say, and Dean doesn’t have to be told twice.

With Castiel close to his side, they bust out the door and into the crowded hallway.

The clock in Dean’s head starts ticking, and all he can think about is that they have ten minutes, perhaps even less to get to the field. With any luck, Sam is already there, helping Charlie get that engine running so they can make their escape as quickly as possible.

People stagger out of the way as Dean and Castiel both zigzag through the throng of teenagers and soldiers, leaving behind a cloud of confused and annoyed grunts in their wake. The festivities are in full swing, and the pyre is still blazing as the music punches through the dreadful night.

Dean chances a look over his shoulder, and he sees a dozen soldiers hot on their heels.

They cross their earlier hiding place, swiveling through cars and tanks alike as they take the long way around the plaza, away from the congregation of students and spectators. The scene melts away in blotches of red, black and orange, and they’re running down a dark alley when Dean’s ears finally pop, bringing in noise in a hot rush.

Taking a left, Dean swings Castiel close in a split second, holding him still with a hand over his mouth to keep his labored breathing from giving away their position.

Dean counts – ten seconds – and the men on the chase run right by them.

It is ten more seconds before Dean sags against the brick wall with a hushed exhale, struggling to gain his breath. He tries not to linger on the sight of Castiel standing pressed chest to chest, or the feeling of Castiel huffing and puffing against his neck as he tries to calm himself down.

Beside them, their hands are clasped together, the same way they were the moment they ran out of the claustrophobic room.

“The graveyard,” Castiel says, shakily. Their hands drift apart when Castiel moves away to give Dean the journal. “We don’t have much time.”

Dean mourns the loss of Castiel’s touch, but he nods his head, taking the journal and tucking it inside his breast pocket. “Red, red, black, blue, and red,” Dean recites, remembering the pattern Charlie had given them. “Should be over that wall.”

True enough, on the other side of the alley wall is what used to be a clearing, but has long since been littered with industrial waste.

Boxcars, gondolas, and cabooses; they all lie in various stages of ruin, spread out for miles on end over silver-green grass. The area is dark and quiet; the sounds of the festival locked away in a box of brick walls. Out here, it’s a small blip of wilderness amongst a city of giants.

The red boxcar is easier to find than Dean expected, as he and Castiel try to jog between dismantled leather and moldy carpets. It’s only a matter of seconds until they find the next one, and then the next – a coal hopper. This one, they walk around it.

The blue box car smells of tobacco and piss, and Castiel hesitates walking inside it, despite Dean’s insistence that it would be faster.

“Someone’s been here. Recently, too.”

“It was probably Sam,” Dean says, pulling himself up through the back door of the car lying on its side.

“I wasn’t aware Sam was fond of tobacco.”

“He’s not. I mean—” Dean is interrupted by the sound of gunfire, making him flinch when one ricochets near his head. “Shit!”

Grabbing Castiel by his vest, Dean helps him into the boxcar.

They break into a run again, their path made ten times harder by the debris on the ground, but the sound of an airplane’s engine gives Dean a stomach-churning sense of hope. Even with Gestapo on their tails, they’re almost there.

Castiel briefly loses his footing, but Dean pulls at his hand, not allowing him to fall back now that they are both so close.

An endless void of night swallows the clearing up, leaving it bare but for the tall blades of swaying grass. The night is filled with twinkling stars and a full moon, and were it not for the fact that Nazis are currently hunting Dean, he would have stopped to enjoy the view. Beside him, Castiel squeezes his hand.

The sight of Charlie’s airplane makes them run faster; Castiel limping but keeping up while refusing to loosen his hold on Dean’s hand.

Wind throws dirt and grit in Dean’s eyes as the propeller changes angle, the airplane beginning a slow taxi, ready to go airborne in seconds. In the roofless cockpit, Sam animatedly waves at Dean and Castiel to hurry up.

Dean doesn’t have time to linger on the thought that the biplane is a two-seater, and they are trying to shove four fully-grown adults into the small metal contraption. The only relief Dean finds is that it looks far sturdier than the one they took from the States, even with its smaller size.

Legs hurting and chest burning with exertion, and gunshots ringing dangerously close behind, Dean grabs hold of the rope ladder with his free hand, only letting go of Castiel’s when he’s certain that Castiel too has a hold on the ladder. He climbs up, scrambling with the metal ledge for purchase before Castiel pushes him into the seat.

Landing on his back with a huff, Dean hisses when his head collides with the side of the plane, and then groans when Castiel gracelessly lands on top of him. It’s ridiculous and childish, the two of them shuffling to right themselves – somehow – in the tiny space of a single seat, but Dean feels his heart drop when the biplane begins its ascent.

At a small attempt to be comforting, Castiel’s hand rests over Dean’s chest, keeping him pinned down as the long minutes slug by before reaching cruising altitude is reached.

He will deny it come daylight, the way Dean clings to Castiel’s body above him. Running on adrenaline eclipses the crippling fear of flying, but when the angry yelling and sharp sound of gunshots give way to the droning from the biplane’s engine, Dean feels the icy grip of fear.

But Castiel, either instinctively or accidentally, holds him tight until they’re smoothly soaring above Berlin’s darkened sky.

“Are you all right?” Castiel says beside Dean’s ear.

Clutching onto the jacket covering Castiel’s back, scared that the man will fly away, Dean reluctantly nods. “I’ll be fine.”

When Dean is calm enough to move with certainty that the airplane won’t fall from the sky, he nudges Castiel to move. It’s an awkward dance, a tangle of legs and elbows, and tailbones digging into thighs, as they both maneuver themselves into a comfortable position.

They decide, at last, to leave Dean on the seat, with Castiel halfway pinned between his thighs. The security his weight provides trumps the should-be-ashamed feeling Dean has towards the pleasant pressure on his crotch.

“You two in one piece?” Sam shouts from up front, where he sits behind the pilot’s seat.

“We’re alive,” Castiel calls back.

Dean gives Sam a thumbs up.

“Did you get the journal?”

Dean laughs when he watches Castiel fumble with his tunic, pulling out John’s weathered journal and waving it for the two of them to see. He hears Sam laugh with delight.

The night around them feels cold, and Castiel’s body is a solid wall of warmth as he leans back to rest against Dean’s chest. They’re both tired, sore, and badly beat up. It’s been one hell of a day, and Dean isn’t about to protest against Castiel’s weight.

The Luftwaffe doesn’t give chase, and Dean couldn’t be more relieved. The thought of having to out-fly the German air force makes him queasy. On land, he’ll take them all, hand-to-hand if need be. But in the heavens, Dean is out of his league.

“You lost your glasses,” Dean says after a beat of silence. He brings up a hand to wipe away the trail of blood that oozes from Castiel’s lip. The spot looks black against the white cotton of his gloves.

“And you lost your hat,” Castiel answers, tipping back his head so that it rests on Dean’s shoulder. “Nazi paraphernalia aside, you looked very handsome in it.”

At the reminder, Dean removes the armband from around his arm, and casts it out of the airplane. The uniform still feels small and stifling, even with the sharp air that whips and cuts so high above.

“I can guarantee you I look better with nothing on.” It’s a thoughtless quip, but Dean smiles when Castiel chuckles.

“Whatever will I do with you, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean doesn’t answer for a long while. He’s caught staring at Castiel’s eyes that look black under the cover of night. The moment feels soft, Dean thinks, and he likes it. Dean likes the gentle, barely-there smile Castiel is giving him as they cut across the sky.

“We’ll just have to find out,” Dean finally answers, but he is sure the motor’s noise stole the words away.

❖

Charlie lands the airplane at Englischer Garten just as the clock strikes midnight.

The four of them climb out, stiff and sore.

“Those were some pretty smooth moves you pulled back there,” Charlie says to Castiel, patting him on the back. “What happened to your ankle?”

“I think it’s sprained,” he says. He looks unfazed by it, until he tries setting his weight on his right foot. “Fairly certain, it is.”

Unbidden, Dean stands by his side for support. “We’ll get you patched up when we get back to the library,” Dean says, his tone giving no space for refusal. “You need to stay off it for a bit.”

“We can’t afford to lose time. Not when Victor is a step ahead.”

“What happened in there?” Sam asks, running a hand through his hair as he joins them. “You look just as banged up as Dean.”

Castiel shakes his head, pressing a hand to his split lip. “I got ambushed.”

He says no more, and Dean is wary of the haunted look in Castiel’s eyes.

“Long story short: the Ankh of Thoth,” Dean says, grabbing Castiel by the arm and pulling away to sit on the closest bench he can find. Castiel goes without protest.

Charlie slides in next to Castiel, tipping his head upward by the chin to inspect his injuries. “Sounds expensive,” she says idly. From inside her jacket pocket, she pulls a handkerchief and hands it to Castiel.

“What is it?” Sam pries, eyes going big with the kind of little-kid curiosity that could win any heart over.

Dean gives Castiel a questioning look. He’s been told before that Charlie is trustworthy, but with a title like ‘sky pirate’, one can’t be too sure about discussing great archaeological finds around her. At Castiel’s nod, Dean says, “The key to El Dorado.”

A boom of laughter escapes from Sam, startling them all. “You’re… Please tell me that you’re joking.”

“City of riches, gold, knowledge – you name it. According to Vic, this will give them the advantage they need to win the war,” Dean says. He runs a hand down his face and sighs. “He wanted Cas,” he adds, avoiding Sam’s eyes.

Those words feel charged and heavy on Dean’s tongue. Victor wants Castiel, and Dean feels disgusted that it may be for more than just translating the ancient text. The way those repugnant fingers had traced Castiel’s face, with almost a hint of false tenderness…

“So, what now?” Sam says. “We know what to look for, what it does, all we need is to find it, right?”

“Apparently,” Dean grumbles.

“Great. Any idea where to start?”

“Cairo,” Castiel mumbles, refraining from looking directly at any of them. “We’ll find the ankh in Cairo.”

The four of them sink into silence, and Dean doesn’t need the ability to read minds to know why. Castiel looks legitimately frightened, like a small animal that has had their tail stepped on. He’s beaten and bruised, and he knows more than any of those present.

Or maybe it’s just Dean who reaches this conclusion, because he saw the state Castiel was brought into the room in Berlin. Something else happened, and Dean hates himself for having left Castiel alone, instead of having him go with Sam.

What’s worse, Dean only just notices that Castiel is discreetly cradling his left hand – the hand Dean had yanked him along during their great escape.

Anger and uselessness suffocate him, and so Dean yanks off the tunic as he walks away from the group, and casts it into a manmade pond.

“I guess we’re going to Egypt then,” Dean hears Sam say.

“I can give you a lift,” Charlie says. “In fact, I insist. Anything to make it easier for you boys.”

No one says another word, and Dean knows they’re all waiting for him to agree or disagree. He’d rather drive anywhere, but the need to get out of Germany is so overwhelming that he’s nodding his head before he can give it a second thought. “We need to get to the library; get our stuff,” he says, numbly.

“Kaydet has a storage compartment,” Charlie says, presumably talking about the airplane. “If it isn’t much, I think we can pack her. Leave before morning.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam says.

From somewhere behind, Dean hears Castiel hum in agreement.

Taking a deep breath, and trying really hard not to smash something against a wall, Dean slumps. “Fine,” he concedes. “But first I’m gonna need a drink.” If only to soothe his nerves for yet another long flight.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s the first day of June and Egypt is, as anyone would guess, hot.

Rather than complain about the heat and fatigue after two very long days, Castiel decides to lose himself in the dreamlike scenery that develops around him instead.

The initial impression Cairo leaves is of the heat and sand; hues of brown and yellow and red. What Castiel hadn’t expected is how alive and booming the city actually was. Photographers and scholars usually spoke of desert and camels, but those two elements aren’t the only remarkable things worth admiring.

Casks among casks filled with spices line the streets in shades of green, orange, red, and even violet. Pyramids made of fresh fruits and vegetables tower well above Castiel’s head. There are stands with live animals: sheep, hogs, chickens, and the occasional monkey.

To Castiel’s left is an assortment of silk, cotton and wool fabrics, both crude and decorated, ready for sale. Clothing, rugs, sheets; all of them accentuated with exotic patterns and detailed embroidery.

Men and women call out to potential buyers, beckoning people towards their stands. Castiel sees plenty of soldiers of American, British and French nationalities, threading through the heavy throng of locals.

Castiel’s stomach rumbles at the smell of warm food in the air.

Beside him, Sam is purchasing a basket of fruit.

“Any idea where Charlie went?” Dean asks, going through the hand-woven basket with a frown. He eventually settles on a fig.

“She’s getting us a place to stay,” Sam says, holding the basket for Castiel to pick something.

Deciding on a Chinese gooseberry, Castiel mutters a “thank you.”

“I guess SS hospitality ended in Germany.” Dean pulls his Swiss knife from his pocket, and smoothly slices the fig in half. He then hands half over to Castiel. “Well they can take their fancy wine bottles and shove it.”

“I don’t think they intended for us to make it out alive,” Castiel says, grimly.

Holding the gooseberry in his right hand, he slices it open and tries not to wince when his wrist sends a jolt of pain all the way up to his shoulder. Castiel feels considerably better than he did two days ago, but the graver sprains are still evident when he moves the wrong way.

Without looking at Dean, he hands the knife back.

Something is looming, but no one is willing to breach the subject just yet. Castiel is grateful for it, as he is still unable to voice the things that had transpired in the dark room in Berlin. He figures he’ll talk about it when the time comes, and the time may be soon, judging by the heavy looks Dean continues casting him.

“The Ankh of Thoth,” Sam says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I understand why it would be Egypt, but what’s so special about Cairo?”

“You tell us.” Dean gives Sam a smirk. “You’re the one with the doctorate.”

Sam makes a face at Dean, and Castiel almost laughs at it.

They walk down the street, passing in front of a vendor claiming that his jewels are made of real rubies, before Sam answers. “We’re awfully close to the pyramids, but if that would be it, it’d be Giza. Cairo is ripped in half by the Nile, but that’s about it. It’s not even that ‘pure’, culturally and economically speaking. If there was anything worth sacking, the Ottomans would have taken it, or Great Britain, after that.”

“Cairo will lead to the city,” Castiel says, stopping to look at a stack of clothing. He likes a blue tunic in particular that is tucked beneath a tower of neatly folded pants. Despite being made of cotton, the fabric looks thin and fresh.

Dean guides him away before the vendor can make his way to them.

“You said the ankh would be here,” Dean says, his voice deliberately sweet, forcing a calm that isn’t there.

Castiel shakes his head. “Victor referred to Cairo as the ‘heart’ of the expedition. The ankh might as well be elsewhere, but it should be near enough.”

“Maybe there’s something in Dad’s journal?” Sam chips in with a hopeless shrug.

“The text is a map to the city,” Dean explains, aggressively shoving his finger into the fig. “To get to the city, we need the key.”

Castiel watches Dean pick at the fruit, oddly fascinated by the repetitive motion of it. His eyes drift from Dean’s hands to focus on his face instead. Words are frequently clumsy and inappropriate when they escape Dean’s mouth, but Castiel has come to learn that he has other ways of communicating how he feels and what he thinks. Like the current pinch between Dean’s eyebrows means that he is deep in thought, for example. Actions. Dean is a man of actions.

Castiel has to look away when Sam tugs at his arm, telling him to take a seat while they wait for Charlie. Curious as he is, Castiel doesn’t protest. They’re all tired, and exploring the market can wait until later.

“We’re in the right place,” Dean suddenly says, gaining both Castiel’s and Sam’s attention. “I’m sure.”

“Dean?” Sam takes a seat on the wooden bench, and leans across the table to listen to what Dean has to say. “Fresh pair of eyes; tell me what you’re thinking.”

“An ankh symbolizes eternal life,” Dean says. He begins to drum his fingers over the table top. Castiel watches intently as he casts a look around them. “It also symbolizes the key to the Nile.”

“So…” Castiel begins, taking a moment to process what Dean just said. “The city is _in_ the Nile?”

Dean snorts, pointing at Cas while grinning at Sam. “Get it? He said ‘in the…’” Dean stops himself when Sam gives him a _this is serious_ face. “Right, no,” Dean continues, clearing his throat. “Not in it, but it might lead to it.”

“Follow the Nile, great,” Sam says, not sounding very convinced. “That still doesn’t tell us where the ankh is.”

“It’s _Thoth’s_ ankh.” Dean grins, switching his gaze from Sam to Castiel. “Nothing yet?” At the collective shaking of their heads, Dean huffs. “Thoth was believed to the scribe of the gods, the original author of the Book of the Dead. I mean, it’s probably a long shot, but it’s better than nothing, right?”

Castiel tilts his head, not following at all. “I’ve followed up on research with less,” he says, giving Dean a soft smile of encouragement.

Nodding his head, Dean continues. “The Book of Thoth was a tome belonging to Ancient Egypt; it’s where they kept all the complex rituals, spells and philosophies jotted down. There’s dozens of stories about it, most of them saying how the knowledge of the gods isn’t meant for humans. But the most popular one talks about…uh…” Dean thinks for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Nef… eh, Nefer… _Neferkaptah_.”

Both Sam and Castiel continue to stare at him, still lost as to what Dean is getting at.

“This prince once stole the book from where Thoth had stashed it at, and when he died, he was buried along with it.”

“But we’re not looking for a book,” Castiel says, slowly.

“No, we’re not. But Thoth, god of balance, always kept things in twos,” Dean says, leaning back against the wall his bench is propped against. His smile is smug. “When Neferkaptah found the book in one of the two boxes that were guarded by serpents, he left the other one alone, for whatever reason.”

“Huh.” Sam runs a hand across his mouth. “You think the ankh’s in the other box?”

“Yup.”

“Did the legend say where the boxes were?” Castiel asks, breathlessly intrigued.

“I’ll give you one guess.”

“The Nile,” Castiel mutters, his mind glittering with an overwhelming sense of amazement.

“Now we just gotta find where along the Nile,” Sam adds, looking off into the distance, presumably piecing the bits Dean has said into a single image.

But Dean clears his throat again, bringing their attention back to him. “A little place called Coptos might be it.”

“Coptos,” Sam echoes. “I’ll need a map, and probably a local historian to translate from Ancient Egyptian.” He sounds determined.

“I still don’t understand how Cairo fits into the legend,” Castiel says.

His back is beginning to sweat due to the sweltering sun beating over his head, and secretly envies Dean for having remembered to bring his fedora.

“Perfectly, buddy. Cairo fits perfectly.” Dean raps his knuckles on the table. “In Cairo rests Neferkaptah’s tomb.”

Castiel slowly nods his head, furrowing his brow. “In his tomb, the book lies, but not the ankh.”

It hits him like a lightning bolt, but Sam says it before Castiel does. “They’re looking in the wrong place!”

“And ain’t that swell,” Dean says, his eyes shining with a hint of pride.

“Dean, that’s… I mean… how the heck did you manage to put _that_ together?” Sam demands, seconds away from jumping up and down on his seat like a little boy. “Jeez, I don’t even remember reading anything about that.”

Dean shrugs, casual and cool as he tips his fedora. “I’ve picked up a book or two, Sammy. Do you honestly think I dive headfirst into your expeditions without snooping around first? I don’t want to waltz into Imhotep’s tomb and come out cursed.”

“We have a heading,” Castiel says, with a sort of subdued happiness. “And we have the upper hand.”

“I say we catch some shuteye, and we’ll set off first thing tomorrow,” Dean says, and they all agree.

A splendor of youth shines on Dean’s face, a bout of brilliance that not even Sam with his extensive knowledge of the archaeological world could compete with. No, Dean isn’t a man of words, but he’s brilliant and wonderful all the same. This realization moves Castiel so much, that he has to take a moment to reprimand himself for thinking that Dean was in any way lesser the very first time they met. He can feel his cheeks warm in embarrassment by the harsh judgment he had wrongfully imposed.

Bursts of warmth sporadically bloom within Castiel’s chest, sending out vibrant signals that reach the very tips of his fingers, making them tingle. The joy Dean’s smile elicits in him is bright and colorful, much like a sun after a stormy night. It is pure, smelling of fresh nature, and intoxicating like the best spirits. Dean is synonymous with adventure and the thrill of a chase.

Enamored is the only word in Castiel’s extensive vocabulary that can accurately summarize it all. And God help him, for Castiel is _enamored_. 

“All right, gentlemen,” Charlie’s voice calls out, startling Castiel out of his thoughts.

She’s wearing a faded blue porkpie atop of her red curls, and a pair of loose-fitting trousers that sharply contrast with her black jacket. She wears it well, despite the terrible midday heat.

“I got some good news, and I got some good news. Kinda,” she says, rubbing her hands together like she’s about to spill a scandalous secret. “I got us lodging in the most inconspicuous place imaginable.”

“Well?” Dean says as he stands up, removing his hat in favor of fanning himself with it.

“It’s a brothel.” Eyebrows rise all around the moment she lets the words drop. “What? Seriously? I thought you fellas would appreciate it. It’s either that, or you can sleep out on the street.”

“We’ll take it,” Sam says, looking uncomfortable.

Castiel isn’t fond of the idea himself.

“The girls are really nice,” Charlie tries to assuage the grimaces. “They won’t try anything unless you pay upfront.” She deflates after a few seconds, rubbing at her temples. “Sorry I couldn’t land anything better.”

“You did the best you could,” Dean says. He pats her shoulder reassuringly. “Now let’s get a move on before I melt on the spot.”

Flashing them a grin, Charlie goes off to lead the way, with Sam close on her heels.

Dean soon follows, but Castiel stops with a hand to his shoulder. He doesn’t know why he does this, his mind going blank when Dean looks at him with a concerned expression. 

“Dean—”

“What is it, Cas?”

His eyes, however green, look like rich honey under the sun. Even a hint of freckles paint Dean’s cheeks. Without giving it another thought, Castiel leans up, pressing his lips to Dean’s mouth in a light kiss, before pulling away. 

Castiel isn’t sure what the kiss is for, if he even has to give it a reason, but it’s out there now.

Dean blinks owlishly, looking stunned.

“I—I’m sorry,” Castiel murmurs, suddenly stricken with the idea that maybe these feelings only go one way. There’s a sliver of panic as he begins to pull away, adamant to go after Charlie and not look back on what just transpired.

But Dean’s hand finds his elbow, pulling him close and sealing a kiss of his own over Castiel’s lips.

It’s chaste and gentle, and Castiel fights the urge to continue. They’re in the market with locals, tourists and soldiers milling around them, all of them wrapped up in their own business. Sure, they pay Dean and Castiel no heed, but this is an affair better tended to in private.

“Let’s get going, yeah?” Dean says, unwillingly pulling away from Castiel.

Castiel absently nods his head, and it isn’t until Sam calls for them that they rush off after a chortling Charlie, leaving their fruit basket forgotten on the table.

❖

The brothel is, dare Castiel say it, exquisite.

The building is reminiscent of a sultan’s palace, though windowless and ancient as it stands nestled between much smaller buildings. Expensive rugs line the stone floor, and colored cloths hang and drape down from the ceiling in a feast for the eyes. It’s beautiful, as are the women who flock to them in greeting.

Castiel clears his throat, ducking his head in embarrassment when two ladies thread their fingers with his, giggling in his ear behind their veils. One of them cards her fingers through his hair, before she’s politely asked by Dean to stop.

Dean’s eyes do stray to the lithe figures in harem pants, their clothing modest but revealing in the way the women move. Castiel is surprised that he doesn’t feel the least bit of jealousy; not that he has the right to.

A string of Arabic words sends the women away speaking in hushed whispers amongst themselves. From behind a thick cover, another woman emerges, this one dressed in a tight black dress that reaches her knees. Her skin is the color of cinnamon, and her black hair falls in luscious curls well past her shoulders. She gives them a bright smile that somehow enhances the smokiness of her eyes.

Castiel thinks she might be one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen.

“Welcome,” the woman says, taking Sam’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “I take it that you are the Winchesters, yes?” Her English is crisp and clear, with just a slight hint of an accent lingering underneath. “My name is Portia, and I run the House.”

“I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean, and this is Castiel,” Sam introduces, and she moves to shake their hands as well.

“It’s so nice to have company after so long. Charlie said you three were splendid entertainers.”

“Entertainers?” Dean asks, turning to give Charlie a sharp look, only to see that she’s nowhere in sight.

“Oh, no, no, that’s what we call our guests,” Portia clarifies. She moves to take a bronze bowl from a small round table. “Dates?”

When no one moves, Castiel takes a step forward and takes some to not be rude. “Thank you,” he says, earning himself a smile.

“A room for each one,” she says, turning her back to them and canting her head for them to follow. “I wasn’t told how much space you would need, but I thought it would only be fair, considering our business.”

They cross a narrow hallway with windows that face the market, filling the building with natural light. Dilapidated fans creak and groan as they spin over their heads.

“I also expect to have you all for dinner.”

There is a sense of disbelief as Castiel walks through the halls, seeing opened bedrooms with beds and chairs. Some of them are richly decorated, but others are simple and organized. The place looks more like a home rather than a brothel, and he understands now why it’s called the ‘House’.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Sam says, his tone saturated with earnest. “We truly appreciate it.”

“Anything for the cause,” Portia says, waving a hand beside her head. “Charlie explained the urgency, and it is nothing short of an honor to have you gentlemen with us. So long as you all behave yourselves.”

“Oh, we will.” Dean speaks up for the first time, looking at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. “One of us is betrothed, after all.”

Sam scratches the back of his neck, grinning soppily at the mention. “My brother’s right.”

“Love is an amazing thing, isn’t it?” Portia says as she turns to them, giving Sam a big smile.

She then looks to Dean, and then Castiel. Her mouth opens to say something, but she seems to think better of it before opting to shake her head instead. There is mirth in her eyes, however.

“These last three doors will be your rooms during your stay. The wash room is on the first floor, towards the back, in case any of you wish to freshen up. Supper is served at five.”

The three of them say their nth round of ‘thank you’ as she walks away, disappearing into the front room.

“First time for everything,” Dean says, choosing the middle door, and walking inside.

Sam chooses the right door, and Castiel takes the left.

The room is small, just big enough to accommodate a bed and a dresser, one on either side of the window. It’s better than anything Castiel had been expecting, and at least he has a pillow to lay his head on tonight.

Nothing can compare to home, his quaint bedroom back in the library, but there is a quest he needs to complete before he can rest. The fate of the world hangs on a balance, a race against time, and he couldn’t just stay hidden behind his old books. This includes him now, whether he likes it or not, and he will see it through to the end. He might as well enjoy the ride.

Sitting on the bed, Castiel looks at the bare walls that painfully remind him of the room in Berlin. He instinctively clutches his hand, even when the action sends pain coursing through him.

Biting down on his lip, Castiel forces himself to think of other things.

Dean’s lips on his own, soft and dry under the scorching sun. Castiel can’t remember when the last time he had been kissed was, but he is certain that it didn’t feel half as gratifying as this.

Hand on his lips, Castiel lets out a soft breath and smiles against his own fingers. It had felt wonderful and—

“Son of a _bitch!_ ”

Castiel is startled when Dean storms down the hall, and he quickly makes his way to the door, where Sam too is peeking out.

“What’s gotten into him?” Sam says, looking at Castiel.

“We left our luggage in Charlie’s airplane!” Dean shouts back, and both Sam and Castiel try really hard not to laugh.

❖

Dean couldn’t eat another piece of bread if he tried.

He’s not sure what he just finished eating – a sort of casserole – but it is perhaps the most delicious thing he’s had in a while. Being a picky eater usually makes his travels a pain, opting to stick to the American classics wherever he goes, but he has to admit that the cook really has outdone themselves.

There’s a hefty amount of bread and cheese still on his plate, accompanied by wine and the strong smell of the coffee Castiel is contently sipping on. The atmosphere is pleasant, with good conversation and the sound of music wafting in from the market through the windows.

Sam talks about himself quite a bit, detailing his line of work, and his engagement to Jessica. Castiel, too, however briefly, gives Portia a summary of himself, and life in Munich.

When she reaches Dean, she considers him with a curious tilt of the head, much in the same fashion that Castiel does. “Tell me about yourself, Dean; such a strapping young lad.”

Dean takes his wine glass and sloshes around the crimson substance. “I enjoy long walks on the beach.”

Portia laughs, high and loud. “Oh, no, that won’t do. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a treasure hunter,” he says, and it isn’t a lie, despite her unconvinced smile.

“A treasure hunter, I see. You and your brother work together, if I assume correctly?” Dean nods his head once. “And yet you aren’t in the same field.”

“Dean is good when it comes to tracking down artifacts. He has this…uh…intuition. He always comes through, even with the most difficult of tasks,” Sam says, taking a drink from his coffee. “He’s the best.”

“You’re brains, he’s the brawn. You two work in tandem.”

“Dean is brilliant as well,” Castiel says, lips hovering above the rim of his mug. He’s looking at Portia with an intense calm that gives his words a gravity of passive-aggression.

Dean’s fingers stop tapping against the tabletop as he turns to look at Castiel with a stunned sort of amazement. His chest tightens at the implication. There is something there, between him and Castiel, and for once it isn’t just his mind imagining things.

“I’m also the good-looking one,” Dean says with a chuckle, just to lighten up the mood.

Portia’s dark eyes go from Castiel to Dean, before she leans back with an airy “ah.”

Beside Dean, Sam is digging his fingers into the corner of his eyes, as if he has a headache.

Whatever it is between Dean and Castiel is no longer a secret.

“Enough about us,” Sam says, trying to ease the heavy atmosphere. “Tell us about you, Madam.”

“There’s not much to say, I’m afraid. Since I was a little girl, I liked to help people, and so I did.”

“By running a brothel?” Dean says. He doesn’t mean to be rude, although he may come across as such. It’s an honest question.

“There is a reason why I call it a House. You see, all of my ladies need a place to stay, much like you. Some of them have made these walls their permanent home, and some of them wish to pay me back whichever ways they can. They aren’t obligated to work, which is why it is forbidden for men to simply lay hands on the first girl they come across when entering through my doors.” Portia takes a sip of her wine, running a hand through her long hair and settling on curling the end of a strand.

“I run a very tight ship, gentleman, and no harm will come to these girls.” Her words are a warning, and Dean understands that she isn’t talking about the three of them.

Trailing behind them is a plume of evil, and by granting them lodging, Portia is putting the lives of these people at risk.

“We understand,” Sam says with a firm nod. “We won’t allow any harm.”

“Good,” Portia says, her smile sliding back as she raises her glass. “How are you enjoying the sights? Especially you, Castiel. Charlie tells me you don’t get out much?”

“It’s amazing,” he answers, putting down his mug. “A lot more vivid than I expected it to be. I really like it.”

“Always happy to hear that.” The wink she gives him makes Castiel duck his head, which Dean finds amusing. “Will you three be heading out tonight? I heard there will be a band playing in the square. It’s some good fun if you are looking for a nice time.”

“I don’t think we’ll be doing so, no,” Dean says, looking at Sam and Castiel for their agreement. “These past couple of days have been gruesome, and I speak for all of us when I say we need a long rest.”

Before any of them move, Portia leans forward on the table, and picks a round fruit from the centerpiece. She spins the sphere in her hand, looking at it with careful concentration before she taps it against her chin.

“The pomegranate is a very rich fruit,” she says, and runs her nails across its surface. “Rich in legend and myth, and potent in its aphrodisiac properties. The Greeks saw it as a symbol of birth and death. The ancient Persians said it symbolized invincibility in battle. All of them had different stories, but no one really speaks of Ancient Egypt.”

Taking a dinner knife, Portia slices the fruit open, and it bleeds down her elegant fingers, staining her palms and arms. “They do speak of the Greek pantheon, but they never say how they took our gods and renamed them as their own. In the end, the stories were always the same. Athena once called it the forbidden fruit. Judeo-Christians call it the fruit that led Adam and Eve to sin.”

Her eyes linger on Dean as she bites into it, then drift to Castiel as she pulls it away, her lips staining red. “It’s always sex,” Portia says, smiling when Castiel looks away. “There’s nothing wrong with seeking the pleasure and warmth of another body. Isn’t that right Sam?”

Sam sputters something unintelligible, and Dean understands that they are all feeling incredibly awkward about this.

Portia laughs as she pulls her chair away, taking a small towel with her to wipe the stains from her skin. “Just a little food for thought, yes? Goodnight, gentleman.”

They all mumble their goodnights, but none of them really moves, too stunned by the sudden subject discussion.

Even Dean, with his expansive knowledge, is left with burning ears.

“Okay,” Dean says, awkwardly clearing his throat as he shuffles to his feet. “I guess we should go ahead and turn in.”

“Sounds like a plan, yeah,” Sam agrees, following Dean’s motions and standing up as well.

“Cas, you coming?”

Castiel blinks up at Dean, blue eyes a little dazed before he nods. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

The walk up to their rooms is silent, only the heels of their shoes echoing against the carpeted floors. Up ahead, Sam absently hums a tune Dean recognizes but doesn’t remember the words.

Dean looks at Castiel out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing about how their hands touch as they walk side by side.

Music from the market fills the halls with an exotic tempo of heavy percussion and desert sounds, and the beat makes Dean’s stomach stir with a kind of heat he really shouldn’t be enjoying. Not when his brother is just five steps ahead.

“I’m going to try and see if I can decipher where Coptos is before I head to bed,” Sam announces out of the blue, stopping before his room and opening the door with a soft creaking sound. “If I’m able to find it tonight, we can head out tomorrow, bright and early. Get a head start.”

Dean yawns loudly, and pats Sam on the shoulder as he goes by. “Sounds good to me, Sammy. Don’t stay up too late.”

Sam mumbles something before saying, “Goodnight, Cas.”

To which Castiel replies with, “Have a good night, Sam.”

Dean lingers at his own door with a hand on the doorframe, his thumb feeling the uneven grain of the chipped wood. He waits until Sam has closed his own door, before looking up at Castiel with a hesitant smile.

The sun has already set; the sky a bruised purple with the beginning of dusk lingering over the horizon. Lamps have been lit across the hall, and Dean is surprised by the lack of bugs and mosquitoes.

Castiel leans against the wall, his brow furrowed curiously as he stares at Dean, unabashed. Dean figures that the need to be discreet about appraising each other is no longer needed. He can’t help but smile at the thought.

 

But Castiel chuckles despite that, and fondly shakes his head as he approaches Dean. “After you, Mr. Winchester.”

Back against his door, Dean fumbles blindly for the doorknob, too busy looking into Castiel’s eyes to pay much attention to what he is trying to do. “Please, call me Dean,” he says, and nearly yelps when he manages to open the door and nearly fall back on his ass.

❖

Unraveling the map Portia had gotten him, Sam lays it over his bed. He sets John’s journal over one of the corners to keep it from rolling itself up, before moving to pull a lamp closer to his impromptu work area.

He moves to the window to shut the curtain in an attempt to block out the music, but the twirling of fabrics and glimmer of gold just outside distract him momentarily.

There are people dancing to the jaunty tune, clapping their hands and singing along, and it looks like a good amount of fun. But there is one girl, in spite of Sam being too far up to properly see her face, which reminds him of Jessica. Her hair is yellow even under the gray light of a young night, and her laughter chimes sweetly in his ears.

Words cannot begin to fathom how much Sam misses her – her smile and her lips upon his cheek. His heart twists and aches at the mere thought of her.

He, Dean, and Castiel still have a dangerous road ahead, and they all need to focus. They need to work towards the goal and not stop until the deed is done, even if it kills them. There’s still John to find, and a war to stop.

Sam sighs, tired and lonely, and turns towards the map.

❖

Castiel’s mouth tastes of spice, a delicious mixture of exotic and erotic that prompts Dean to swipe and wrap his tongue around Castiel’s as they clumsily walk towards the bed. He’s handsy, too, alternating between tugging and pawing at Dean’s chest through the thin cotton of his shirt.

There is no hurry, something that contradicts the frantic kiss, but Dean’s hand on Castiel’s back slowly kneads its way downward to playfully cup Castiel’s ass. Castiel gasps into his mouth.

It’s teasing, slow; a simmering heat that licks at the pit of Dean’s stomach, sparking hints of arousal. They press their bodies together in the dimly lit room, swatting away the hanging decorative cloths before Dean sits on the end of the bed.

Standing between his knees, Castiel leans over to spread kisses along Dean’s face, over the scars and bruises Munich and Berlin left behind. His lips feel warm and adoring, hesitant but attentive as they brush over a healing cut along Dean’s jaw line, then move to a particular tender spot at the corner of his right eye, near his temple. Dean licks his lips, breathing out with pleasure when Castiel runs finger through short hair, resting at the back of his head to gently massage the scalp.

Warmth twists and writhes in Dean’s chest, but it has little to do with the arousal that has him hard beneath his belt. The tender attention Castiel is giving him makes him want to fully surrender, offering his hands for Castiel to take. For the first time in a very long time, Dean feels safe, and it is nothing like the fake security he had tried to create the last time he attempted to settle down.

“Dean?”

“Hm?”

Dean looks up with glazed eyes, mouth parted in anticipation, and Castiel gives him the pleasure of another kiss.

“Would you mind settling down? On the bed?”

The question is so hushed and embarrassed that Dean can’t do anything but smile fondly and nod his head. “Of course,” he says, and clumsily scoots himself up the bed, laying his head on the pillow.

He watches as Castiel crawls onto the mattress, on all fours, before kneeling between Dean’s feet. It’s probably an inappropriate thought, but Dean thinks Castiel looks submissive as he kneels there, hands on his thighs as he ponders something Dean can’t guess. But then he moves, and his fingers begin to unlace Dean’s boots.

Dean watches attentively at how graceful Castiel’s fingers work, before lifting his leg just a bit to remove the boot and sock. He then repeats the movement, patient as a saint, on the other one.

All the while, Dean’s heart is beating a rapid tattoo against his chest. He’s pretty certain he’s had sex less intimate than this.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Castiel says, startling Dean when his voice interrupts the stillness, “how I ended up here. Balthazar couldn’t get me too far away from the library, and yet, here I am; miles away from home, in a distant land where legend and myth may be a reality.” Castiel’s fingers squeeze and rub at Dean’s calves over the fabric of his pants, massaging their way upwards.

Dean moans unashamed, worrying his bottom lip as Castiel dishes out the blissful torture. He’s torn between melting into the bed and sleeping for week, and shoving his hands down his pants to get off. Castiel is both an oasis and a bolt of lightning, and Dean isn’t sure to which one he wants to succumb to.

Castiel’s hands move to Dean’s shins, their fingertips skimming their way upward, past the knee and thigh, and up Dean’s stomach.

“What convinced you to come along?” Dean asks in a hushed tone, dabbing his lips to Castiel’s when they are face to face again – chest to chest, and a tangle of legs. “I mean, besides world order hanging on a thread and Nazis being bigger dicks than usual.”

Castiel pretends to think for a second before saying, “A handsome adventurer happened, and he promised me the adventure of a lifetime.”

“Huh. Funny, since I don’t remember saying anything like that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Castiel brings up his hand to touch Dean’s cheek, his thumb caressing the prickly hairs of his stubble. “You’ve made my life awfully exciting.”

Dean overlaps Castiel’s hand with his own, holding it there for a moment longer. The touch is tender, and Dean mourns that he can’t bask in it forever. “You know, you’re not so bad… for a librarian.”

Castiel pouts at him, and damn if that isn’t the most adorable thing. “Do not misinterpret my diplomacy for fragility.”

“Never did. I was convinced you could hold your ground back in Berlin. Those were some pretty smooth moves.” The way Castiel had so easily maneuvered himself free and fought until he was well outside harm’s way is something that will always linger in Dean’s thoughts. He had moved with the utmost grace and skill. “Where’d you learn to do that, anyway?”

“Can’t say I’m sure,” Castiel says, and Dean watches as he leans away from him to pluck a fruit from the bowl Dean hadn’t noticed on the bedside table. “It came naturally. Perhaps it was just a freak bout of adrenaline.”

Between Castiel’s hands is a pomegranate, and Dean can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, and that is reciprocated by a smug-looking Castiel. Portia had noticed it before they did, and this is probably meant as a nudge in the right direction. Dean could have done without having _the talk_ in front of his brother though.

“The fruit of sin,” Castiel continues, his voice a marveled murmur as he spins the pomegranate in his fingers. He looks at Dean with eyes at half-mast, a tongue wetting his lips, and Dean knows it’s an invitation. One he wouldn’t dream of rejecting.

Castiel shifts his position, making himself comfortable as he straddles Dean’s hips. The dim light of the lamps bathe Castiel’s face in shadows, but Dean can still see the bruises along his cheek and lip. He wasn’t the only one who had gotten beat up pretty bad, but the only difference is that Castiel won’t talk about it, either out of stubbornness or trauma.

And as desperate as Dean is to have him, he can’t bring himself to touch Castiel with something so heavy burdening his chest.

“How’s your hand?” Dean asks, tentatively placing his hands over Castiel’s. It is nowhere near enough, but it’s a start.

“Better,” Castiel says, offering Dean a smile. “I probably just sprained it while we ran for the airplane, but it’s feeling better.”

But when Dean’s thumb strokes Castiel’s knuckles, he tries to pull away.

A dense silence fills the room, with Castiel expressionlessly looking down at the fruit within their joined hands. Dean feels the world turn a bit colder.

“Talk to me, Cas.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

Dean manages to pry Castiel’s fingers away from the fruit, and brings the injured hand closer to his mouth. He presses a kiss to the wrist, applying soft pressure around it in search of anything broken. A sprain looks more likely, so Dean nods his head in concession. But there is something else, something that makes Dean’s heart sink unpleasantly into his stomach.

As Dean touches along the soft skin of Castiel’s fingers, he’s met with more flesh rather than a nail at the end. He repeats the process five times, only to find that three nails are missing from Castiel’s hands.

Taking deep breaths, Dean calms himself before he can lash out with anger.

All John ever did was yell at him and Sam whenever they got hurt, and a lot of good it did them.

He gives Castiel a moment to collect himself, because behind the blank face Dean knows is a storm of fear and turmoil.

They stay quiet for what seems like hours, before Castiel finally speaks up. “They wanted me to translate the text. I told them I’d rather die than give them what they wanted.”

“But you didn’t know how to translate it,” Dean says between the kisses he is now peppering across the skin of Castiel’s hands.

Castiel makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. “My father always said I was a defiant creature.”

Dean busies himself with lavishing Castiel’s fingers with attention, twirling his tongue around them and gently suckling at their fleshy sides. Above him, Castiel shifts and lets go of a breathy sigh, his free hand resting over Dean’s chest. Maybe Dean won’t be able to erase the things that were done to Castiel, but he can sure as hell try to alleviate their burden.

“There’s something else,” Castiel whispers, and Dean almost misses it, were he not focused on Castiel’s face.

Letting go of his hands when Castiel pulls back, Dean holds his breath as Castiel unbuttons his shirt. He’s hesitant, but Dean touches along his thigh, gesturing for him to continue.

At first, Dean doesn’t know what he’s meant to be looking at; a nice chest, maybe, too well-formed for a librarian, but his eyes dart to something else, something ugly and gut-wrenching that triggers a ball of bile. He bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from saying anything inappropriate, but Castiel most likely got it, judging by the way he’s wrapping himself in his shirt again.

“It’s disgusting,” Castiel says, and he sounds a cross between indignant and broken.

An angry red swastika stands out beneath his ribs, on the left side of his midriff. They _branded_ him.

The injury is still raw, red, and secreting, but there is ointment dabbed on it and along the surrounding area. It will heal, but the scar will be something that will haunt Castiel for as long as he lives.

Dean shuts his eyes, squeezing them hard as if it will be enough to erase that knowledge from his memory. The anger, the ire that courses through his veins is overwhelming and terrifying, and God help him, because he won’t rest until every single one of those motherfuckers are buried six feet under. That is, after he plucks off their fingernails and brands them all like cattle.

Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, Dean breathes in deep, and exhales long and slow. “I’ll tend to that,” he says, pulling his hands away and looking up at Castiel with a promise. “I’ll tend to your wounds.”

His words are raw, clumsy on his tongue. Dean isn’t a man of words, but he’s a man of feeling.

Castiel breathes out, shakily, while nodding his head. Never before has he looked like such a lonely child, and it breaks Dean’s heart that the man above him, so cunning and kind, has been brought down to this.

“C’mere,” Dean says, and holds out his arms.

Castiel moves himself, lying down on top of Dean. He settles his head on Dean’s chest, nose pressed to Dean’s neck as their legs move to get comfortable. Castiel is heavy, but it’s a pleasant sort of weight, so Dean doesn’t complain as he wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist, mindful of the wound.

It’s too hot, so they don’t bother with the covers. The music in the market has faded into blissful silence, and the moonlight spills in through the windows to illuminate the stone floor of the room. For the time being, they’re safe, and that is all that matters.

Dean’s hand caresses Castiel’s hair, and enjoys how his hair smells of soap. He extends a grateful thought for their hostess for having given them a chance to bathe before dinner.

It doesn’t take too long for Castiel’s breathing to even out, giving in to the calm cover of sleep while wrapped in Dean’s arms.

Dean waits until the moon is higher in the night sky, until the sound of a snore nearly makes him chuckle, before he presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead. Tomorrow is another a day, another long one, but right now he wants to take a moment for himself. Dean wants to bask in the fact that he’s holding Castiel close, wants to cling at the miracle that Castiel actually reciprocates his feelings. For the first time in a long time, Dean is content in holding someone while they sleep.

❖

“I got it! Dean! It’s Qift! Qift stands where Copto’s once was! We’re literally a boat ride away from the city!” Sam calls out, muffled, excitedly knocking on Dean’s door. “I spoke to Portia, she helped with the translations and…” The door cracks, its hinges creaking. “— _Jesus_ , Dean!”

Sam’s voice sounds dreamlike, and Dean groans tiredly, wiping the drool off the side of his mouth pressed to the pillow with the back of his hand. The sun hits his eyes and he instinctively tries to roll over, but something pins him in place.

A sea of voices drifts in through the window, as well as the bray of camels, the snort of pigs, and the cluck of chickens. Sounds pull Dean away from the borders of jumbled unconsciousness, and into the land of the waking. An arm squeezing his middle and a huff of breath tickling the back of his neck may have helped, too.

It takes him a moment to realize what’s going on.

He’s laying on his side and Castiel, God help him, is spooning him with an iron grip.

Sam is also in the bedroom with them, looking halfway between fatigued and mentally scarred for the rest of his long years.

“Shit,” is the only word Dean can remember, but at least he and Castiel are semi-clothed.

“Get out,” he says next, because he has the mind to not move after all. Apparently, a night of Castiel unintentionally rubbing his crotch against Dean’s ass had a bigger, _unfinished_ effect than he had expected.

“Right,” Dean hears Sam mumble, before the door closes safely between the two of them and the world.

Dean groans again as he tries to wrestle himself free of Castiel’s hold, which is proving impossible because the guy is awfully strong for someone so averagely built. Failing the attempt to pry the arm wrapped around his waist away, it wraps itself tighter, pulling Dean until his back is flush to Castiel’s chest – but Castiel isn’t asleep.

Lips play against the nape of Dean’s neck, nose nuzzling and breath tickling the skin there. Castiel moves his kisses downward, spreading them along Dean’s shoulders before flipping him onto his back. Dean lets himself be manhandled, spreading himself out for Castiel to take.

“Good morning,” he says when Castiel begins to nibble on his chin. “I really need to piss.”

“Hold it,” Castiel says, running a hand down Dean’s chest. “I’m not done with you.”

“You never even started,” Dean retorts, biting his bottom lip when the hand trails lower, but groaning in annoyance when it deliberately avoids the desired area. “Come on, man. Give a guy a hand.”

And Castiel does. He cups Dean on the way up, and Dean doesn’t bother holding back the way he bucks into the touch, desperate for more. But Castiel is already rolling out of bed with a smile Dean can only describe as evil.

“You may use the bathroom once I’m done with it,” Castiel announces, buttoning up his shirt as he makes for the door. “I heard Sam found the artifact’s resting place. We shouldn’t waste time.”

Dean lifts his head from the pillow, still in the ungraceful sprawl Castiel left him in. “You son of a bitch.”

Castiel laughs, and heads out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

Hot, bothered, and desperately needing to pee, Dean lets his head fall back onto the pillow with an incredulous snort.

“What a fucking tease.”

What a way to start the day.

❖

Two hours later finds them standing on the brothel’s doorstep, waiting for the bus that’ll take them to the dock. Portia has been kind enough to supply them with transportation and a day’s worth a food for their trip down the Nile.

The market around them is just as lively as it was yesterday, the hustle and bustle impervious to the storm clouds overhead, the thunder promising bad weather for later in the day. Dean can handle a boat; it’s Sam that he’s worried about. He made sure to pack some extra lemons for the trip.

Sam and Castiel are already standing by the curb, satchels and bags by their feet as they chat btween themselves, waiting for their ride to come trudging through the dense crowd.

Dean adjusts his fedora to better cover his eyes when the last rays of sun to be devoured by the oncoming storm momentarily blind him. The day is humid, and it makes sweat gather at the base of his neck and the hollow of his back.

But despite the discomfort, he’s well rested, and he’s faced worse in far more terrible conditions. So far there haven’t been any leeches sucking at his heels, or scorpions the size of his thumb ready to sink one in him, or snakes coiling to squeeze the last bits of life out of him. There’s no yellow fever, malaria or dysentery determined to put him out for good. He’s healthy as a peach, Sam is with him, and Castiel keeps sneaking peeks at him with a knowing smile. Despite the inevitable trouble ahead, Dean is feeling good.

“There is a full moon tonight,” Portia says, emerging from behind a plum-colored cloth. “Be sure to make good use of it once you find the ankh.”

Dean turns to her with a short nod. “You really think those two are connected?”

“The gods of old had a vital connection with the celestial bodies. Thoth, before taking the burden of wisdom, was tied to the moon. I don’t believe in coincidences, Dean.”

She has a point, all things considered. The ankh will be the key to the city, but they still have to decipher the text in the journal. They will have to use their time on the boat to approximately estimate the location, in case the full moon does turn out to be necessary. The clock is still ticking, but time is slipping by too quickly.

The creak and sputter of the approaching bus makes Dean look away for a brief moment, before turning back to Portia to say his goodbye, but he pauses when her hand cups his cheek. “You will find your father. I am sure of it.”

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again, nodding instead. He figures she and Sam spoke about more than just their quest for the ankh, and he feels guilty about not having been there. He’s not sure if Sam even got a wink of sleep last night.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Dean says, hoping that those few short words convey everything he wishes to say. Thank you for keeping Sam company, thank you for giving them shelter, and thank you for giving this thing he has with Cas a well-needed push.

Portia’s smile is beautiful, all straight white teeth and glimmering dark eyes. “May whichever god you pray to be with you,” she says, placing a hand over Dean’s shoulder, and directing him towards the bus.

Sam is already settled inside, but Castiel is still standing on the curb, waiting for Dean to join him. When he does, Castiel gives him a soft smile.

Dean places his hand on Castiel’s arm, but he doesn’t pull or push. He’s comfortable about casually touching him, just to make sure that he’s there. His cotton shirt is soft to the touch.

“Ready to go?” Dean asks, realizing that there’s a new pair of glasses perched on Castiel’s nose.

“Of course,” Castiel answers, before turning to give Portia a parting wave. “There’s no time to waste.”

“I wonder where Charlie ran off to,” Dean says, almost as an afterthought while walking across the street with Castiel by his side. “She just disappeared last night.”

Castiel reaches the bus first, jumping up onto the first step and lingering. “She has a tendency to do that at times. She fears that attachments will only cause her trouble,” he says, causing Dean to chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

“Naw, it’s nothing.” Dean pushes at Castiel’s hip, prompting him to get inside already. “Guess I just know how she feels.”

Castiel looks at him for a beat of a moment, a frown marking his forehead before conceding a nod. “Don’t we all?”

Dean is left staring even after Castiel has disappeared in between the aisle of seats.

He’s not the only one. Dean isn’t alone in this lonely feeling that he’s unable to quench, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he simply can’t.

“Sir?” the bus driver says, his accent too thick for his English to be clearly understood.

Shaking his head, Dean climbs inside.

It’s only the three of them on the bus, whose bare floor and coverless seats are ancient and rusted. He sits opposite Sam, who has his nose stuck in the journal, looking ready to fall over due to exhaustion. In the seat in front of him, Castiel is staring longingly at the vendors through the dirty window.

Looking out his own window, Dean spots Portia speaking to a man standing on the brothel’s doorstep. The man is wearing a black suit and a gray fedora. They shake hands before Portia invites him in with a hand on his back.

Maybe Dean isn’t that well rested after all, because for the briefest of seconds, he could have sworn the man looked exactly like John. But it’s impossible. The window is dirty, the sun is in his eyes, and his thoughts are elsewhere.

Dean pulls his hat to cover his eyes when the bus lurches forward.

He dwells on the meaning of Castiel’s words, on the obvious connection and the shitty excuses. The inability to bond with people no longer deserves the old ‘job description’ excuse; it isn’t a dent caused by his lifestyle. The introverted librarian and the extroverted adventurer share the same fluke. The polar opposites share a common denominator.

Castiel is just as damaged as he is, and Dean isn’t sure whether to be pleased or feel sorry for the both of them. But a common fault means understanding, something Dean hasn’t found in his years of joint-hopping and bed-warming.

There’s comfort here, gentleness, and tender touches. They share shy kisses and relieved sighs – and it’s only been a day since the fuse of the tipping point had been sparked.

This thing between them is new, not to mention dangerous, and it will probably burn them both beyond healing if something goes wrong. But Dean is an _adventurer_ , he lives on the border of danger, and it may not be as exciting and sensational as it sounds, but it’s what keeps his blood going. Dean lives for the thrill; it keeps him sane, grounded, and human.

Licking his lips, Dean moves without giving it much thought. 

Grabbing his satchel, he slides out of his seat and ignores Sam’s questioning look. He also ignores the bus driver’s muttering.

Dean plops down onto the worn leather, next to Castiel, and gives him a shrug when he gets a raised eyebrow. “Less sun,” Dean lies, and shimmies down the seat until he’s comfortable, tipping down his hat again.

The sky is dark now, the sun long gone behind black clouds, but he imagines he’s in the clear since Castiel doesn’t call him out on it.

The minutes tick by, the sound of Sam scribbling on the journal behind them has long since stopped, and only the soft pinpricks of raindrops against the bus windows, and the sporadic muttering of Arabic disturb the silence.

Dean is close to falling asleep when a hand gently lands on his thigh.

He waits just a breath before covering Castiel’s hand with his own, and delicately squeezes it, mindful of his fingernails.

Dean may never recover from the burn, but Castiel is one adventure he’s unwilling pass up.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam’s grief the moment he spots their boat is briefly assuaged. Where he has been expecting to see a sloop, or an equally flimsy boat similar to the one that crossed him and Dean across the Strait of Dover, he instead sees a retired ship approximately the size of a small building.

It’s nothing graceful, looking crude and boxier than a car. It’s a ship built for war, not leisure, and it allows Sam a sigh of relief. The ship serving as a cruise in the river means that it’s been decommissioned, and judging by the rust and faded insignia on its side, it has been for a while. But it looks sturdy enough to weather the storm that rumbles closer to Cairo’s shore.

The wharf is bustling with activity, and the smell that drifts up from the water is terrible. Sam bites back bile at the stench of waste and fish. Normally, he could have handled with a strong stomach, but the added nerves are only making him queasy.

“We could have just driven to Qift. God knows it’d be quicker,” Sam grumbles, adjusting his satchel and mounting the ramp up to the ship. He can hear Dean snicker behind him.

They hurry up the ramp when the light drizzle decides to worsen, and take shelter beneath a colorful tent that seems to have been added for the sake of touristic flare. The thing looks outrageous out on the main deck, but Sam can’t complain. It sure beats getting soaked to the bone, having no extra clothing for a change.

The trip won’t take more than a day, or so Portia had insisted, so none of them had bothered with extra luggage. Sam had been adamant about bringing at least a quick outfit in case they got rained on, but neither Portia nor the two lovebirds making doe eyes at each other acknowledged the chance of a rainstorm.

The swaying of the ship is minimal, and Sam draws in a steady breath and flexes his fingers to relieve the coiled up tension in his bones. It isn’t terrible, but he figures it would be better if he just slept through the entire voyage until they reached Qift. He’s fatigued, not having a good night’s sleep in days, and he can already feel his eyelids drooping without his permission.

“How you holding up?” Dean asks, patting Sam hard on the back.

“I think I’m gonna head into the bunk,” Sam answers, nodding his head resolutely. “I’ve done enough researching for one week; I’m sure you and Cas can take it from here.”

“What other information do you need?” Castiel says, looking around at the people milling on the deck with a hint of apprehension.

“Well, uh, you guys need to crack the code in the journal. Find out where the city is before we get the ankh.”

“Consider it done,” Dean says, guiding Sam with a hand firm on his back through the throng of people to stand in front of a heavy steel door. A deckhand is polite enough to open it. “You go get some shuteye in the meantime.”

Sam stops at the top of the steep narrow stairs, looking down at them making him grip the handrail until his knuckles have gone white. “Just don’t get in trouble,” he says, turning to look at Dean with a frown. “I mean it.”

Dean’s grin promises nothing but. “Cross my heart, Sammy.”

“Dean, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, yeah, so am I, for all our sakes.”

Looking over Dean’s shoulder, Sam waves at Castiel, who nods right back with a smile. There’s a sense of tranquility Castiel emanates, and it’s almost contagious. It’s easy to see why Dean has fixated on him, of all people.

“Wake me when we get there,” Sam says, hesitantly taking the first step. He’s faced worse, so he’s not going to let a little set of stairs on a warship conquer him.

“No, I’ll make sure to wake you on my way back to America,” comes Dean’s not-so-witty reply, and Sam doesn’t refrain from rolling his eyes.

“No slacking off.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Sam is obligated to move when an elderly couple stands beside Dean, giving them both dirty looks for clogging up the stairway. Casting the couple an apologetic smile, Sam shoos Dean away with a wave and makes his way to his cabin with a yawn.

He isn’t sure whether or not to blame the strange blankness in his mind on the fatigue and lack of sleep, but Sam is grateful for the brief hint of peace the nothingness brings. Since Eckhart first marched into his classroom bearing semi-false news about his father, Sam’s thoughts have been in a surreally jumbled state. Digging for what is truth and what is carefully plotted deceit has left him vacant.

Maybe he’s getting too old for this. _Nonsense_ , considering he’s younger than Dean. While Sam will never turn down a good expedition into the depths of the barely explored, he finds himself favoring the quaint calmness of home.

Sam misses the warm bed sheets on a cold rainy night, and the hot chocolate he and Jessica would share in front of the fireplace. He thought he’d never think it, but he misses the hubbub of students demanding an explanation for their terrible grades. He misses the comfort of home.

But Dean hasn’t been this spirited in ages, now that he has a path and cause guiding every thought and decision along the way. Peril be damned, Dean is breathing clouds of sunshine and reason, things that keep him grounded.

A familiar bed may be good, but seeing Dean muster a grin from the depths of his heart is just as bolstering. Sam loves his brother, and seeing him walk a good road is rewarding enough.

Closing the cabin door behind him, Sam is made uneasy by the cabin’s tiny size. It’s long but narrow, with two beds hanging from the wall, eerily reminiscent of a jail cell. Not that he’s ever occupied one, but he’s been obligated to spring Dean out of a handful several years back.

Unable to bring himself to give it much thought, he undoes the first two buttons of his shirt while he lets himself fall onto the bottom bed with a huff. It’s hard and uncomfortable: the cold of the metal slab seeps through the thin sheets and measly pillow, but Sam is too tired to care.

Orbs of brightly colored lights dance behind his eyelids, the imprints of the storm-clouded Egyptian sun slowly fading as sleep comes drifting in.

Sam rubs at his eyes and dispels the feeling of guilt at leaving his brother to do the rest of the work for the day, but he figures not much will be get done; not with Castiel offering coy smiles. If anything, the two of them need all the alone time they can get.

The last thought that crosses Sam’s mind is that he will miss seeing the Great Pyramid, before blissful sleep takes over.

❖

The rain has long-since let up, but the clouds still linger overhead like a reminder that the worst is yet to come. Even so, the few rays of sunlight that spill through the thick coverage cascades over the sloping sides of the pyramids, giving them a brushing of gold that makes them overwhelmingly breathtaking. Surprisingly, not many of the people on board are rushing starboard to get a better view.

“It’s a shame Sam is missing this,” Castiel says, eyes wide with wonder and fingers zinging with excitement. He’s read about them countless times, but no photographs could ever do them justice.

Beside him, Dean hums in agreement. “We can take a car on the way back. Make a stop, be plain old tourists for once.”

“He’d like that,” Castiel says.

“Would you?”

Castiel smiles, feeling more of that familiar warmth Dean causes pooling in his chest. “I’d enjoy it very much.”

“Good,” Dean says. He looks satisfied by Castiel’s answer, and just this side of smug.

“In fact, I’d enjoying seeing it all.”

“Oh?”

Wanderlust is a foreign field to Castiel, but catching sight of one of the wonders of the ancient world has left him reeling and hungry for more. When days ago he hadn’t even entertained the thought of traveling outside his usual route, now Castiel yearns to see everything, man-made or otherwise.

“I always wondered how astounding it would be to stand in the shadow of the Great Wall of China. I wonder if it’s possible to walk along the Nazca Lines in Peru without seeing them from the air, or if I’d be allowed to linger in the surrounding forests of Mount Fuji in Japan.” Castiel sighs. “I’d also like to visit the Roman Coliseum, admire the Scottish castles, experience how truly cold it is in Russia…”

Dean is looking at him steadily, and the only name Castiel can possibly put to that look is _affection_ , unadorned and bare. And somehow that is just as thrilling as the thought of seeing the world.

“If you ever need a tour guide, I’m your man,” Dean says, turning back to the pyramids as the ship continues its swift path downstream.

There’s a promise in his words, one that runs deeper than the here and now. Castiel is overtaken by the urge to kiss him, but not here, not in front of so many people. Instead, he settles for touching the back of Dean’s hand, hoping it conveys at least half of the love Castiel feels for the man. Dean answers with a gentle smile that squeezes the air out of Castiel’s lungs.

“I’d like to get away,” Castiel continues. “There’s beauty to be seen in this world, despite the ugly scars of the war.”

“One would tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel,” Dean says, but doesn’t broaden on the subject.

They lapse into comfortable silence until the pyramids are long out of view, leaving them with nothing but sand, muddy water, and the occasional burst of greenery. Thunder rumbles close by, and it’s when it finally begins to drizzle again that Dean backs away from the railing.

“We should get to decoding that text,” he says, pulling out the journal from the inside of his jacket. “There’s a few hours from here to Qift, so might as well get to it.”

“I’m not sure I’d be of much help without the library at my disposal,” Castiel says, following Dean towards the less populated area of the ship. There are seats mounted along the railings with umbrellas tied over them.

“You were onto something. Can’t you remember what it was? It’ll probably give you hint in the direction you need to follow.”

“Yes, but…” Castiel slides a hand over his mouth, before taking a seat with his back pressed to the railings. He’s glad for the weather, or else the seats would be too hot to sit on. “It was… strange. We’ve talked about this. Delusions of a man without sleep and a not a single drop of coffee.”

“What if we, you know, recreate the atmosphere that night… somehow.”

“I would rather not relive the nightmare, Dean,” he says, voice hushed as he takes the journal from Dean’s hands. Castiel slowly flips through it, admiring the vast amount of annotations and drawings throughout.

“So what’re we supposed to do, then? Play pin the ankh on the city and hope we get it right?”

“Honestly,” Castiel says with a smirk. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”

Castiel looks sideways at Dean when he receives no retort, and spots him staring closely at a woman with long blonde hair and khaki trousers. Her back is to them, but he thinks little of it. “Dean?”

“We got a few hours to ourselves then, if there’s nothing you can do about the translation,” Dean says, almost absently as he continues to trail her with her eyes. “Anything particular you want to try?”

Castiel shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. “If there is, a third party is definitely not on my list.” Once the words are out, Castiel realizes that he sounds like a petulant child. Dean may have helped on getting him out of his shell, but there are lines he’s unwilling to cross.

“What?” Dean turns to him with both eyebrows raised. “No, Cas, it’s nothing like that.” He chuckles, probably to lighten the mood, but Castiel isn’t the slightest bit amused. “Come on, man. She just looks familiar, I swear. I’m just… trying to remember from where.”

“A lady friend?”

“Not my type,” Dean says, almost instantly. “I’m more of a black hair and blue eyes kind of guy.”

The corners of Castiel’s mouth twitch upward, and he clears his throat to mask his pleasure. “How kind of you to reassure me.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shifts in his seat, drumming his fingers against his knee. “Don’t expect flowers or anything.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“It’s not that you aren’t worth…—”

Castiel looks at him when he lets the sentence drop unfinished, but Dean is looking towards the shore like he hadn’t even spoken. Castiel doesn’t press, just allows his hand touch Dean’s where it’s settled over his knee, before pulling it away for the sake of modesty.

“How’s your hand?” Dean asks, still not looking at Castiel.

“Better. Portia was kind enough to apply salve and have it wrapped it up,” Castiel says, holding up his bandaged hand and flexing his fingers. He’s briefly reminded of a mummy, and the thought makes him chuckle. “It’ll prevent infections, especially when dealing with muddy water.”

“And the other one?” The question is hesitant, and it takes a moment for Castiel to understand what he means.

“It’s stopped bleeding,” he answers evenly, proud of himself for not letting his voice waver. “It doesn’t sting as much.”

Dean gives a stiff nod. “It sucks to have your lot thrown in with the two of us.”

“There’s no need to apologize. None of this is your fault, Dean. Or Sam’s, for that matter.”

“We Winchesters have a habit of getting our friends and family hurt. If you’re on our side, you lose, simple as that.”

“That sounds like drivel,” Castiel says, giving Dean a stern look. “You lead a dangerous life, danger will undoubtedly follow. But by God it’s not like you’re the one pulling the trigger. And besides,” he waits until Dean is looking at him to continue, “I would tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel.”

Dean looks gobsmacked, and Castiel can’t help but harrumph in success.

“I, uh…”

“Yes?”

“I got nothing,” Dean concedes with a defeated sigh.

The drizzle becomes stronger, each drop of water landing with a splat on the umbrellas above their heads. The sound is soothing to Castiel, reminding him of the rainy nights in Munich, when rainfall kept him company during the lonelier nights in the library.

“You got a lot of spunk for a nerdy librarian. I like that.”

Castiel laughs, plucking the glasses from his nose and drying them with the sleeve of his shirt. “That’s why you should never judge a book by its library.”

“That’s not how the saying goes.”

“Would you have read a coverless book from my German library?”

“No, probably not.”

“It might have been a copy of _The Hobbit_ , and you never would have known. Therefore, my phrasing is much more suitable given the situation.” Placing the glasses back on his face, Castiel closes the journal and hands it back to Dean for safekeeping.

“Smartass,” Dean mutters, slipping the journal back inside his jacket.

The minutes tick by to the sound of rain and the indistinct chatter of the others on board. Castiel watches as a small group of children play around a retired radar dish, one of the boys attempting to climb on top of it, while a girl helps by shoving him upward. Two other boys are cheering him on, until an adult intervenes and reprimands them sternly in Arabic. The girl makes a run for it, disappearing into the stairs leading into the bunks beneath the deck.

The silence between the two of them feels restful, and while Castiel treasures the wordless communication, he’s too curious to not wonder. “You should tell me about yourself,” he says, aware of how strange and out of the blue the request is. “You always talk about Sam, but never about yourself.”

Dean blinks at him, mildly perplexed. “I guess it’s easier to talk about Sam. My life ain’t that rich and worth telling. Couple of run-ins with the law here and there, bad crowd, Sam gave me a break and that’s it. ‘Treasure hunter’ has a better ring to it than ‘outlaw’ does.”

“You can’t condense your life into four sentences, Dean.”

“Well the details aren’t too pretty.”

“I’ll take them,” Castiel says, unwavering in his resolve to get to know the man that’s managed to enamor him. Heaven knows when they’ll have another moment like this.

Dean’s eyes are steady on him, hard and detached when he finally agrees with a reluctant huff. “If we make it out alive, I’ll tell you everything you need to know about me.”

Frowning, Castiel shakes his head. “Everything, and I won’t settle for less. I want every gruesome detail.”

“That’s kind of creepy, Cas.”

“I find it charming.”

Dean laughs, sounding incredulous. “Please don’t tell me you’re the kind of guy who likes to watch people sleep.”

Castiel remains quiet for a moment. “Only if you’re ill and need someone to tend to you.”

“Oh, come _on_. I’m not a kid!”

While amused at Dean’s outburst, the background thought of Dean allowing Castiel to stay in his life in such a way makes him smile all the more. They have both reached a checkpoint, and Castiel couldn’t be happier.

“Then tell me whatever you’re comfortable with,” Castiel says. “Whenever the time comes.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“At least tell me what your favorite kind of food is.”

Dean’s laugh is boisterous, so much that he places a hand over his belly as he settles down. “You don’t quit, do you?”

“Father always said I was stubborn.”

“In that case, I like pie.”

“I figured as much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look like the kind of man who would enjoy a homemade pie. There’s comfort and familiarity in the flake, and exquisite taste in its filing. A good balance between homeliness and the excitement of adventure.” Castiel picks at a loose thread on his pants, suddenly embarrassed by his assumption. “Then again, that’s just my opinion.”

Dean is looking off into the distance again, but this time his head bobs in a barely noticeable nod. “No, you’re actually kind of right.” But he offers no more insight. Castiel accepts this, thinking that Dean Winchester is a man of many layers.

“I like hamburgers,” Castiel says, causing Dean to laugh again. “Especially when accompanied by a vanilla milkshake. True, I haven’t had one in ages, but… it’s still one of my favorites.”

“Those are good, too,” Dean says, and pats Castiel’s thigh.

The rain is torrential now, and the two of them huddle in their seats, legs up as to not wet the hem of their pants.

“I have a terrible sweet tooth,” Castiel confesses, thinking back to all of the sweets he and his brother used to fight over whenever their mother would bake. “I like crumb cake in particular, with a side of freshly brewed coffee.”

“Now I’m hungry.”

Castiel chuckles, discreetly pressing closer to Dean’s side. “So am I. I wonder if the galley is open at this hour.”

“I highly doubt it is,” says a honey-sweet voice, and both Castiel and Dean are startled by it. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Long blonde hair falls over slender shoulders, framing a pale angular face and rosy cheeks. It takes Castiel a brief moment, but when he finally puts a name on her, he feels silly about not recognizing Balthazar’s own secretary.

“Bela,” both he and Dean say in unison, before dropping into a charged silence.

Castiel’s initial reaction would be to stand up and greet her, kiss her hand and ask if she’s enjoying her vacation. But the knowledge that Dean knows her leaves a sour taste in his mouth. That, along with the fact that several men around the deck have stopped what they’re doing in order to face them, leaves him rooted to his seat.

Dean, however, swoops to his feet and takes her hand. “This is a really nice surprise, bumping into you here,” he says, and Castiel catches the rigidness in his voice. “I see you’ve already met Cas.”

Bela’s smile is brighter than the diamonds hanging around her neck. “First name basis already, I’m impressed. I must say that I didn’t picture the two of you getting along so well.”

Castiel finally gets to his feet, regardless of the downpour now soaking him to the bone. He walks to stand by Dean’s side, who no longer looks pleased as a pea to see her.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Castiel says, trying to sound calm.

A commotion breaks out towards the front of the ship, a group of people scurrying away from the dozen uniformed men now approaching Bela from behind. They’re all armed. Castiel feels his stomach drop when he sees the red, black and white armbands.

“Welcome aboard the KMS Scharhorst,” Bela says, swaying coyly from side to side. “I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a surprise.”

“The only surprise here is that you’re blonde,” Dean retorts, completely at ease despite the unfriendly smirk on his face. “Why the change of heart?”

“Black just wasn’t my color. A shame, considering you have a type.”

“The whole traitor thing kinda spoils it for me,” Dean says with a shrug.

Bela raises her eyebrows, smile unmoving as she turns her attention towards Castiel. “Hello, love. It’s been a while. How’s Balthazar?”

“Alive,” Castiel says, feeling tendrils of anger wrap around his throat. “You’re working for Victor.”

“Actually, I’m working with Eckhart. I don’t waste my valuable time on the lower ranks of the Gestapo, I’m afraid.”

A chorus of clicking guns has Castiel recoiling, the recollections of Berlin making his blood run cold. But Dean moves closer to him, protective in his stance. “What’s in it for you?” he asks, putting a hand on Castiel’s elbow.

“Now why would I say? Information is key, Herr Winchester. I can’t just tell you, and risk any of you three going gallivanting after it,” Bela says, but then stops, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Speaking of, where is that brother of yours?”

Dean’s smile sweetens a tad bit. “Now why would I tell you?”

“Because I’m the one with the guns.”

“Sam is in Munich,” Castiel interrupts.

“Cas—”

“I’m sorry,” he offers to Dean, before turning back to Bela. He takes a deep breath to stills his nerves. “He and Balthazar are trying to decipher the code. Dean and I… we… needed to get a head start. Alone.”

Bela taps the tip of her shoe against the wooden deck, seemingly debating whether to take Castiel’s words as truth or not. She decides otherwise when she pulls a pistol out of her blouse, and takes two steps closer to Castiel.

“It isn’t really wise to lie, Mr. Milton,” she coos, raising level to Castiel’s eyes. “Now I’m going to ask again, handsome. Where is Sam Winchester?”

“In the cabins below,” Dean says, lifting a hand and stilling Castiel’s protest. “He’s asleep; force won’t be necessary.”

Bela turns her eyes from Dean to Castiel, then back to Dean with a satisfied nod. “Go get him,” she tells her men, who obediently wrench the steel door open and descend into the belly of the ship.

“Dean,” Castiel begins, but Dean shakes his head.

“We can handle it. Just no sudden movement, or you risk making the animal feel threatened.”

“You wouldn’t like me when I’m threatened,” Bela says in agreement. “I bite.”

“Friggin’ Nazis,” Dean mutters, and Castiel can’t help but agree.

The steel door creaks open and meets the wall with a solid clang, as two soldiers clumsily step out onto the deck with a struggling Sam in their grasp. His long hair whips around wildly, and Castiel is briefly reminded of a golden retriever.

Sam is roughly shoved towards the two of them, and he stumbles, rubbing at his eyes when he grips onto the railing for balance. He immediately backs away looking both conflicted and amused.

“I thought I told you to stay out of trouble,” Sam says almost venomously, shooting Dean the most lethal look Castiel has ever seen on a man.

Dean shrugs. “Cas’ fault for being a shitty liar.”

Castiel nearly gawks. “Excuse me? I was trying to not get Sam involved in this.”

“Well apparently, the two of you failed. Miserably.” Sam runs a hand over his face, presumably to rub the sleep away. “What the hell is going on?”

“Remember Bela?” Dean says, jerking his head towards the woman’s direction. “The lady from the dinosaur museum that didn’t have any dinosaurs?”

Castiel knows Dean is talking to Sam, but what he says makes so little sense that he rolls his eyes in annoyance.

“Delémont,” Sam says, sounding shocked. “You’re blonde.”

“She’s also a Nazi,” Castiel adds, since apparently neither brother understands the subject of priority.

“The holy trinity onboard a single ship,” Bela says, her voice lilting with delight. “Wait till Eckhart hears about this. Took you three long enough, too. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up.”

“She’s working for Eckhart?” Sam says off to Castiel’s side, but Dean’s bargaining drowns him out.

“If it’s the journal you’re looking for, it’s right here on my pocket,” he says, and raises his hands when the guns get trained on him. “I’m not armed.” The guns click. “Okay, I am, but I have nothing other the journal in my pocket, I swear.”

Bela lifts her hand, and the guns move away. “If he tries anything funny, shoot him,” she says, before walking forward and standing before Dean. “The journal isn’t what we need, but I’ll be taking it anyway.” With a slick smile, Bela presses herself against Dean, and slips her hand inside his jacket. “What do you say, when all of this is over, we can stop by my tent, hm?”

Her face hovers inches away from Dean’s, causing Castiel to look away.

“Sorry hon, but this guy’s spoken for,” Dean purrs, and Castiel’s fingers twitch when she retreats with the journal in her hands.

It must have shown on his face, because Bela gives both Castiel and Dean a curious glance that soon blossoms into a knowing grin. “Mother Mary and all her angels. You are just chock-full of surprises, aren’t you, Dean?”

Dean shrugs, but grins all the same. “I gotta thank you and your slew of mangy slimy slugs for introducing us.”

Castiel can feel the tip of his ears burn hot.

“Aren’t you two the most precious critters? And how about you, Sam? How’s your lady friend doing? Oh no, don’t give me that look. I know more about the three of you than I care to admit.”

“If it isn’t the journal you want,” Sam bites out tersely, hands fisted at his sides, “then what is it?”

Bela waves her hands in front of herself, gesturing to the three of them. “Well you three, of course. It isn’t that difficult to explain either; whatever it is you three were going to do, you do it anyways.”

“And why do I have the feeling you already know what we were going to do?” Dean asks, combing his wet hair out of his eyes.

“In Coptos lies Thoth’s key, and you, Dean, are going to get it for us. Sam here is going to help you. And Castiel… well, Victor has unfinished business with you, doesn’t he?”

Dean’s hand finds Castiel’s arm again, this time squeezing hard enough to hurt. Castiel feels frozen in place, all of his wounds making a wicked twist as both a reminder, and an omen of things to come.

“No amount of firepower is gonna persuade us there, darling. Not me, not when these two are involved.”

“Always the martyr, Dean. Either incredibly stupid, or amazingly heroic, but I’m leaning towards the former,” Bela says, before turning towards her men again. “Tie them up, and don’t worry about the rain. They’ll be getting wet soon anyways.”

She stays on the sidelines when six soldiers walk forward, grabbing the three of them and aggressively hurtling them towards the floor. Castiel grunts when he lands awkwardly, a surge of pain shooting up his tailbone, water seeping into his pants, enough to be uncomfortable.

They’re manhandled forward as the soldiers tie their hands behind their backs, and then proceed to fasten the ropes to the railing under the pouring rain. Lightning cracks above their heads, and Castiel shivers at the implication.

Across the deck, Bela stares at them with a pleasant smile, and barks orders to three other soldiers, telling them to stand guard until they reach shore.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asks, nudging Castiel’s arm with his elbow.

Castiel nods his head. “I could be better.”

“How long until we reach Qift?” Sam says, eyes shut and sighing heavily.

“We’ve been sailing for two hours,” Castiel offers, and Sam groans.

“Sit back and enjoy, gentlemen,” Dean announces. “We’re in for a six hour ride.”

❖

Dean expected to see a wide variety of things once they reached Qift’s shore. Without much to do for six hours other than sit on a soaked deck while listening to his brother and yet-to-be-official partner whine endlessly, Dean had come up with a rather impressive mental list.

The first and simpler of these is a market similar to the one in Cairo. It would be far smaller and better organized, with a lot of food and dry clothing. There’d be a brothel, and suitable lodging for the three of them, free of Nazi supervision.

Next, Dean had imagined a sprawling palace fit for a sultan. Also packed with food and dry clothing, and suitable lodging for the three of them. But this illusion included dashing ladies in exotic clothing that carried humongous feathers in vibrant colors. They would bring the feathers away with a flourish to reveal a scantily clad Castiel, preferably slicked in fragrant oils for Dean’s enjoyment. Once the ladies have spilled out of the chambers in a fit of scandalized giggles, Dean would rid himself of his clothing and—

“Dean, you need to stop,” Sam had bit out, struggling with his bonds.

The third on the list had been the Gates of Hell, but then again, they had been nearing on the fourth hour of their journey, and none of the three were feeling particularly peachy.

Now, as the warship slowed to a stop at a wooden dock, Dean is disappointed to find neither of the fantasies he had listed. Instead, they’re met with endless miles of sand and the sporadic tuft of grass. The rain has let up, at least.

Both tourists and locals are guided onto shore, and shortly after, a new squad of German soldiers trudges onboard, armed to the teeth.

“Kind of overkill for just the three of us, don’t you think?” Dean asks Bela, who stands off to the side looking like someone has stepped on her spiffy shoes.

“These are necessary precautions, darling. Valuable cargo on this ship,” she says, and gestures for the prisoners to be cut free.

Dean watches as Sam is hauled to his feet, only to be bound again and flanked by two soldiers. Sam’s a smart kid and goes with the flow, only managing to huff like an angered bull when one of the soldiers tries to shove his six-foot-six frame closer to the exit.

Castiel soon follows, but he’s handled with surprising care. He’s even allowed to dry his glasses before putting his hands behind his back, waiting to be bound again. But a booming voice stops the soldier wielding a length of rope dead in his tracks, and sets Dean’s blood boiling with anger.

“Hello Castiel,” Victor says, arms extended outward in a show of welcoming surprise. “It’s so nice to have you back.”

Castiel remains still, face stoic when Victor’s hand slowly touches along his arm, coming to a stop and resting on Castiel’s elbow.

The sight of the touch makes Dean writhe on the floor, daring the soldiers to give him the smallest bit of slack. “I’ll fucking kill you,” he spits out, trying to wrench himself free. “Touch him again and it’ll be the last thing you’ll ever do.”

“How possessive, Herr Winchester,” Victor coos. “It’s a very ugly quality.” Victor’s fingers land on Castiel’s jaw, gently tipping his head to the side. “What say you, Castiel? Do you like it when he becomes like this?”

Castiel’s face is impassive, giving no sign of agreement or disagreement. “You may bind my wrists,” he says to the soldier still holding onto the rope. “If my friends are to be treated so barbarically, then so shall I.”

“It would be very rude of me to do so,” Victor says, finally letting his hand drop in favor of fixing the fedora on top of his head. “Only the best comforts for you, I insist.”

“How very kind of you,” Castiel sneers with significant contempt, and Dean can only think about the vile treatment that had been bestowed on him in Berlin. However, Dean feels a surge of admiration at Castiel’s steadfast resolve to not cave before the enemy.

“There won’t be any need for such extreme methods of persuasion if you willingly give me what I want, Castiel.” Victor’s hand clutches Castiel’s jaw. “When I want it.”

Dean dashes forward when he’s finally released, ready to wring the life out of the creepy bastard, but guards fall on him an instant later. He’s tackled to the ground as he kicks and fights, but a sharp heel to the hollow of his back makes him groan in pain. Ropes wrap around his wrists again, and this time he isn’t spared any comfort as they are wound all the way up his arms until they reach his elbows.

Bela is appallingly strong for being of such small stature, and she wrangles him up on his knees with ease. She slaps him across the face, her ring catching and slicing his lip again.

“I hope you all rot in Hell,” Dean croaks, the wind having been knocked out of him when he’d been slammed onto the deck.

“And I hope you join us.” To the guards, Victor says, “Take him away.”

Dean gives Sam a wild look when Castiel is wrenched away from the two of them, and Sam answers it with a stare that’s equal parts alarmed and reassuring.

“He can’t translate the text,” Sam says, searching for a quick way to dissuade them from taking Castiel. “You know this, and we know this, then why bother with him?” Victor appraises Sam before he continues. “I can try and translate it myself.”

“Sam,” Dean warns, struggling fruitlessly to get up on his feet. He appreciates the gesture, but not at the cost of Sam’s safety.

Victor snorts, and doesn’t dignify the argument with an answer.

Castiel looks serene as he’s hauled away from the deck, down the wooden ramp and onto the sandy banks of the shore.

Onlookers have long since scattered and fled at the threat of firepower.

Dean steels himself, stiff by Sam’s side as he watches, helplessly, while Castiel is pushed inside a Rolls Royce, with Victor slipping inside a moment after. He can feel his stomach twist and churn with cold unpleasantness, feel the impending sense of doom settle at the base of his spine.

But anger overrides every edge of despair, and it fuels him with righteous determination.


	9. Chapter 9

The look on Dean’s face could kill.

It’s easy for Sam to place himself in his brother’s headspace, and heck, he knows he has been in it for quite some time now. John too has been kidnapped, and they’re still on the search to bring their father back. But Sam figures this goes deeper than the search for an absent father. He thinks about how it would feel if Jessica were in Castiel’s place, and the suggestion alone sets his blood pumping hot.

It has nothing to do with John being less important than their significant others.

Dean hasn’t had a friend in years, and losing Castiel so quickly after finally finding him—yeah, Sam can understand where Dean is.

“He’ll be fine,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. “You’ve seen what he can do. Cas can kicks their asses if anyone gets too handsy with him.”

Dean shrugs a shoulder as best he can with his hands tied.

No one says anything else.

Their caravan is crossing the frigid expanse of desert. There’s no rain, no clouds, and the stars are twinkling overhead for miles over rolling miles across the bruised night sky. A desert is insipid and cold, devoid of life just as it is in the daylight. It’s quiet for the exception of the automobiles and tanks that lead the way to Qift’s shore.

In the car upfront, Bela and Eckhart converse. Sam can hear her laughter, making him burn with anger.

Sam fears that the knowledge the SS holds may already be enough to cause irreparable damage. If they had known about their voyage to Qift, then what else did they know about the artifact? Having a spy tailing behind the Winchesters isn’t a far-fetched idea, and he’s certain that’s the cause for their current predicament. However, their notion of where the ankh is located may be incorrect, and what with being held captive and all, it would be better if Dean had indeed been wrong in linking the ankh to the myth.

Priorities have been set, and keeping the Nazis from laying their hands on a weapon with the potential to turn the war in their favor is at the very top of that list. Castiel and John will have to wait, as much as it pains Sam on both his and his brother’s behalf.

The night rolls on with the endless repetition of sand, sky and cold. The rope burns his wrists, and the restless thoughts refrain from giving him any sort of comfort. He’s fatigued, hungry, and he can feel himself start to doze off every now and again.

Sam has no idea how long it’s been, if he fell asleep or not, but the cars are coming to a stop just outside a camp.

Soldiers hurry along the tents and fires, a dozen of them marching up to the car they’re imprisoned in. Sam can hear music and a flurry of German every here and there, and he’s certain he hears a hint of French somewhere to his left.

Neither he nor Dean say a word as they’re manhandled onto the sand, and shoved in the direction of the camp. Sam tries his best not to trip, his sleep-addled mind making him clumsy. He frowns when sand gets inside his shoes.

The bliss of the heat from the pit of fire is short-lived when they’re directed across the maze of tents, away from the orange flames and towards the darker and more secluded area within the heavily guarded perimeter.

The Gestapo is on Sam’s heels, focusing most of their attention on him. He would snort if it weren’t for the gun pressed to his lower back.

Beside him, Dean is still wearing bloody murder across his face. He looks positively lethal, even in the dark, and Sam wonders if the distance the soldiers are keeping is because they think he’s harmless compared to the size of his brother, of if they’re terrified. If it’s the latter, then they had every right to keep away. Dean doesn’t need a gun or a knife to break bone.

When they reach a large tent, the largest Sam has seen since their arrival, a heavily-armed guard steps outside to greet them. The burly man looks at ease as he salutes the soldiers and the officers behind them, but then turns stiff when he turns to Sam and Dean.

He’s relatively tiny when standing in front of the Winchesters, but he still squares off his shoulders and clears his throat. “Herr Fuhrer sends his warmest regards.”

The blood rushes out of Sam’s face.

“He wishes you the best of luck, and that you may succeed in your quest,” the man says, and turns to his side to pull back the tents door. “General Eckhart will see you now.”

Sam has never felt so relieved in his life, knowing that Hitler wasn’t inside the damn tent. He can tell Dean is too, if the “son of a _bitch_ ” is anything to go by.

The inside of the tent resembles the inside of a museum, or worse yet, the inside of library Sam knows well enough. He recognizes several of the artifacts, books, and banners that decorate the walls and tables. The tapestry of a dancing skeleton solidifies Sam’s suspicions.

There are lanterns spread across the floor, their collective heat keeping the space warm enough to be comfortable.

The smell of tea fills the air.

Behind the desk sits Eckhart, immersed in a map, his fingers dragging a compass across the Sahara and muttering to himself before jotting coordinates on a notepad.

Sam and Dean look at each other before turning back to him.

“It’s a shame to have to turn to such cruel and brutal methods of communication, gentlemen,” Eckhart says without looking away from his notepad. He keeps on writing. “I would have enjoyed a more civilized approach.”

After waving his hand, the guards cut the rope that bind their wrists, and shove them onto the nearest available chairs, which are conveniently placed in front of Eckhart’s desk.

Sam winces and rubs his hands together, frowning at the red marks.

“May I offer you a drink?” Eckhart says, finally looking at the two of them with a practiced smile. He gets to his feet and turns to the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of American bourbon. Even without an answer, he pulls out three shot glasses and sets them on the desk, filling them all. “Please, I insist.”

Eckhart looks unfazed as he takes his drink and sits down again, leaning back and removing his hat.

“Ludwig informed you of der Führer’s message, and I share the same sentiment.” Raising his glass, he tips his head in a polite gesture. “We are all men devoted to the changing history of this world, as we are a part of it. War is a weapon intended to keep the people scared, keep them in line. It drains the economy from the poor and gives what little there is to the rich. Deep down, it’s just a gamble.

“What I want, what _Adolf_ wants, is to unite all those who are worthy of a new and impeccable world. We want safety and peace for our loved ones. Sam, Dean, do not tell me that we do not seek the same thing in the very end.”

“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” Dean says, sounding surprisingly calm. It scares Sam a little. “You and your Fuhrer can go eat shit.”

Sam doesn’t correct his brother on manners; he feels the same. Instead, he nods in agreement.

“History repeats itself,” Sam says, bringing his jacket closer around himself. Despite the lanterns, it’s cold enough to make his hairs stand on end. “The good and the bad is just a matter of perspective. There is no black and white, just varying shades of gray; any historian can tell you that, Mr. Eckhart.”

Eckhart gives him a nod, and Sam continues. “During the American Revolutionary War, to the Crown, the rebels were the lawless scoundrels that refused to become civilized folks. To the Continentals, the loyalists were power-hungry bastards that wished to bleed the colonies dry. In the end, both armies pillaged and raped and murdered. Now that we stand here, centuries after seeing the result of the war, who do you think was right?”

“America, of course,” Eckhart says, chuckling, like the answer is the most obvious thing.

“Did you know that North American colonies were one of the richest lands during the seventeenth century? The townspeople weren’t, but the land was. That’s the thing about history; it tends to show you the generalization of it all. The rebels won the war, the loyalists fled to the mainland, and a century later, the richer got richer and the poorer got poorer. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness suddenly had a price.”

“Your point?”

“His point,” Dean says, lacing his fingers together. “His point is that a century from now people are going to look back on this war, and all they’re going to see is the animalistic brutality that the Germans unleashed. Because you’re going to lose, because we won’t let you win, and you sons of a bitches are going to be a black spot in the history books. Your Fuhrer, your Gestapo, your SS – nothing but despicable flecks of trash that did nothing but kill innocent people. You’re looking down the barrel of a gun. Because let me tell you something, karma’s a bitch, and she’s gonna fuck you over nice and slow.”

Sam’s smile is stiff and tiny, so sardonic he can feel it shift his eyes. “What Dean said.”

There’s a beat of silence before Eckhart mutters, “Charming.”

God knows it’s a bad idea to annoy their captor, but Sam is feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the onslaught and he can’t keep himself from feeling smug. He knows that Dean, on some level, is feeling the exact same way.

But Eckhart looks like the words have slipped right off, and he’s smiling again, as if he hasn’t heard a single thing he and Dean have just said. “I see that our opinions differ in this respect, but alas, not all minds think alike.”

“Glad we got that cleared up,” Dean says.

“Quite. However, we _are_ going to make history tonight, and for the best no less,” Eckhart says, and after tipping back and finishing his drink, he stands up. “You’re going to help. Follow me.”

Before Sam can complain, he and Dean are being hauled out of their seats and pushed out the tent.

The cold hits him like a block of ice, making Sam shiver as he staggers across the crowded camp. There are more soldiers now, and in the distance he spots a streak of blonde hair he assumes is Bela’s.

Ahead of them walks Eckhart, his leather coat flowing in the breeze like a cape as he barks orders. Sam briefly entertains the thought of making a run for it, now that his hands are free, but the military issue guns promise that he won’t be able to get far even under the cover of night.

Dean is whipping his head from side to side, presumably looking for a glimpse of Castiel, but he stops a short while after, his face setting into the same stony glare from before.

Bela had said during the drive from the port that Victor had taken him elsewhere, to his private camp, while the Winchesters did what they had to do. She hadn’t gone into details, but Sam figures they’re about to find out their roles in Eckhart’s plan.

They continue to walk until they crest a dune, and below them rests the Nile’s shore. The moon is a disk above their heads that looks obscenely large, and Sam fleetingly fantasizes about leaning up and touching its smooth edges. Had Dean found out about this, he would have mocked him until the day he’s old and gray.

Silver light paints the sand and the undisturbed water.

“This here, my good men, is Coptos’ ancient shoreline,” Eckhart calls out, walking far enough into the river as to wet the hem of his pants.

It’s simple and unadorned. There are no ancient temples or pyramids like Sam has been expecting. No mystical glow or divine voice to announce their approach to Thoth’s treasures. Anticlimactic at best, and Dean seems to think so too.

“You sure this is it?” Dean asks, looking from Eckhart to Sam, and then back to the river. Sam picks up on his incredulity, but he hopes that Dean will understand how much they need for this to be the incorrect resting place.

“We don’t know,” Eckhart answers with grinning. “But we’re about to find out.”

Sam doesn’t like the sound of that.

Chuckling, Eckhart waves a hand in Dean’s direction and says, “More specifically, _you’re_ going to find out, Herr Winchester.”

“Whoa, what’s that supposed to mean?” Dean holds up his hands when two guards approach him, and taking him by the arms lead him to the shore.

“What are you doing? You can’t let him go under!” Sam surges forward, ready to grab his brother back, but Eckhart puts a calm hand to his shoulder.

“Your brother, Professor Winchester, has been kind enough to volunteer.”

“Says who?!” Dean shouts, struggling to wrench himself free of the two brutes jostling him towards the water. He kicks out, but the guard to his left punches him across the jaw. 

A sea of laughter erupts all around them.

“Says you, and the promise to return Herr Milton unharmed,” Eckhart says, voice smooth and serene. His grip tightens on Sam’s shoulder, as if daring him to intervene. “You see, we needed something to motivate you, Dean. And what better way than to dangle the librarian in front of you? As for you,” he says, turning to Sam with a smirk. “Your motivation will be your brother. If he fails, then you will go in and get it yourself.”

“No—” Sam starts, but Eckhart interrupts him.

“And I strongly advise against surfacing empty handed. It won’t end well for any of you, if so.” To emphasize his point, Eckhart presses the end of his pistol snug against Sam’s chin. “Now get to it, you putrid cur.”

Sam gets that he should fear for his life, and he does, in a way, but right now he’s worried about Dean, and the dozen things that could go wrong. Dean is still wounded, littered with cuts and bruises that can get infected due to the dirty water. He could drown; even as a good swimmer, Sam reckons visibility beneath the surface is minimal.

“Dean!”

“It’s okay, Sam, we’re good,” Dean says, tripping over his feet and splashing water when he’s shoved into the river. “You stay right there.”

“He won’t be going anywhere, I assure you,” Eckhart says, and he presses the barrel deeper into the soft skin. Sam grunts, but doesn’t move.

With wide eyes, and blood running cold, Sam watches as Dean wades deeper into the river. Long seconds stretch out in anticipatory silence, and finally, with a quiet pop, Dean disappears underneath the surface, as if he’s been mercilessly sucked down.

“ _Dean!_ ”

❖

Dean thrashes as he’s sucked into the murky depths of the Nile, arms and legs flailing in a desperate effort to grab onto anything he can reach. But there’s nothing within the muddy water, only debris and the crushing pressure that threatens to leave him unconscious.

Dean reaches the point in which he doesn’t fight it, because struggling will only cause shortness of breath and leave him without oxygen. Instead, he lets the indescribable force drag him down, and down, and down some more.

The initial wave of desperation that leads to lightheadedness is quick to dissipate, leaving Dean to wonder if this is it. After years of traveling, of crossing the most treacherous of jungles and the most dangerous of rivers, this is where he bites it. At least he dies on an expedition, he thinks, and not rotting inside the birdhouse.

And then panic sets in, not because he feels the last pulses of his burning lungs, but because he _sees_ something. Something big. And it’s circling him like a shark smelling blood.

He tries to kick his legs, to get somewhere, but he keeps descending into the pits of the river, where more shadows circle around him, part of them flipping and slithering. Dean remembers the snakes from Neferkaptah’s myth, and feels torn between excitement and fear. He’s close, but he hasn’t the slightest inkling as to how close.

Down pulls the force, and around swim the shadows.

Dean’s chest burns and aches, but a fleeting moment of clarity tells him that it isn’t the drowning that’s scorching him. Looking down, something through his shirts glows fiercely in the darkness of the water. It’s his amulet, and Dean grabs it, clinging to the tiny bronze idol like a lifeline.

That’s when it all stops.

Dean is suspended in a lake of nothingness, at the bottom of the river, but all is clear. A shaky intake of breath shows him that there is no water around him, just a rocky bottom with an assortment of reefs and the wreck of a wooden ship. He can breathe, and he’s underwater, but not _in_ the water.

Looking up, he sees the endless depth of the Nile above him.

“Holy shit.”

He lifts a fist and taps the watery surface. The water ripples and Dean gasps. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but that definitely wasn’t one of the possibilities. Maybe glass, but not actual water.

“Air pocket?” he finds himself asking aloud, because the silence is vast and deathly. He can hear his own voice in his ears, but nowhere else. But the rocky terrain goes on for miles, so an air pocket isn’t really plausible.

As fascinating as it is, it’s creepy as hell.

Dean starts when a rumble erupts overheard, and looking up, he spots a shadow circling within the water before it vanishes in the distance.

Cold sweat breaks out of Dean’s forehead, nausea comes soon after. He’s seen a variety of crazy shit throughout his life, but this definitely takes the cake.

The heat of the amulet comes back, and Dean looks down at it, wondering just what the hell the thing is on about. Just then, he feels the amulet tug at him. It isn’t a physical sensation, more mental than anything, like a thoughtful input on where he needs to go next.

Dean looks to his left, and sees that there’s no way to distinguish which side is which. It’s all endless valley that spreads out for miles in every direction, no landmarks to read or mark distances. But the amulet pulls him to his left.

After a brief moment of consideration, Dean figures he’s got nothing to lose. Without food, water, and a way out, he’s a dead man either way.

So he starts to walk.

Soaked to the bone, Dean feels uncomfortable with every squish his feet make inside his shoes. He tries to make out the temperature of the bizarre world he’s been thrown into, but he can’t tell the difference between hot and cold. He can’t smell or taste the air, but the word myrrh comes to mind.

Nobody above the surface told him how much time he had on his head, and that worries him. There’s no way of knowing how long will be too long, when Sam will be forced into the water. And if Sam fails, what then? Dean figures they’ll throw Castiel in. Or maybe they won’t. Eckhart will most likely use him to find another way into the city.

A mixture of anger and awe pushes him forward, across endless fathoms of smooth rock and beneath the expanse of suspended water. He had been a skeptic when faced with the theory of the ankh, and the story behind the city, and how the Nazis want to use it in their favor.

He is still a skeptic, his mind searching for a way to explain what he’s currently going through, but Dean settles with the fact – after what feels like hours – that there may be no way to explain the phenomenon after all. But then, that’s what all people say when faced with something new, until a scientist comes along and tells them that it has something to do with gas, or that it’s just an optical illusion.

Dean is willing to pay big lettuce (in fact, he’s willing to give up all that’s his and then some) for any person who could stand in front him and explain the monument that now stands before him.

It appears out of nowhere, like a mirage coming to life; nothing one moment, and there the next.

No art or history book Sam has thrown his way ever spoke of anything like this. Nothing Dean has ever seen in his waking years could ever compare to the terror the structure inflicts in his soul. There’s a brief hint of recognition every here and there, but it feels like every time Dean focuses on one end of the structure, he completely forgets that the other bit exists. The sight of it alone is unfathomable, and Dean fears the mere thought of describing it within his own head.

At the entrance, in some form of mockery of a garden, is a graveyard. Dean recognizes a majority of these.

A statue of Apollo towers well above his head. A bronze Mycenaean disc leans against the feet of Anubis’ monument. The hull of a Nordic ship is embedded amongst the stones right beside a dōtaku from the Yayoi period. Countless furs lead up to what Dean assumes is the entrance of the structure.

There are other things, things Dean doesn’t wish to look upon because he simply cannot explain them, no matter how hard he looks and how hard he tries. There are colors he has never seen, shapes he has never thought possible, and it gives him a migraine that starts from the base of his spine.

Religious or not, Dean is convinced that this place is blasphemous.

The amulet tugs at him, beckoning him to enter the atrocity.

“No fucking way I’m going in there,” he says. His voice rattles in his chest. “Five bucks says the entrance to Hell is more welcoming than this.”

Another tug and Dean stumbles past the garden, eyes down until he crosses the fur-covered floor. He continues to walk, step after measured step, for minutes on end, but the scene around him never changes...until he looks up.

“Son of a bitch,” is the only thing he can think of saying when he finds himself inside a temple, untouched by water and age.

This is familiar, having found himself in countless sites all over the world. This he can handle, regardless of its unusual and alien architecture.

There aren’t any precious jewels or gold, but there is pottery and coins made out of clay. Dean’s pretty darn sure that’s a bust of Caesar carved into one. A staff with a stone moon leans against a spiral column that’s embedded with sea shells, its bottom sprawling with a dozen tentacles for support.

Dean stops although the amulet continues to tug him forward, mostly because he knows how ancient temples work. Curses are a load of hooey, but booby-traps can leave him staked to the floor with a spear up a very uncomfortable place. And in a place as disturbing as this, he can already smell the scythes waiting to decapitate him.

Wiping the back of a cold hand over his mouth, Dean ducks and inches forward, the tips of his fingers skimming the onyx floor for any cracks.

He pushes out every distracting thought, focusing intently on the path before, below, and beside him. He sees no vines, no boulders, no spears, and no swords. Nothing seems harmless, given the place he’s in, but Dean senses no immediate danger from the artifacts.

He briefly entertains the thought of grabbing the first thing he finds. 

Come to think about it, it would be a win-win situation for everyone on land. He’ll hand Eckhart the first ankh he finds (he’s pretty sure the Anubis statue up front was holding one), grab the heaviest and most expensive looking thing he can get his hands on to guarantee him and Sam a comfortable life, and there you have it. The Nazis don’t get a magical item, the Winchesters end up rich, and—a creak interrupts Dean’s frenzied thoughts.

Halting his careless advance, Dean stays stock still in his crouched position.

He looks over his shoulder, towards the place he came from, and finds only a wall.

Now he’s trapped.

“This is bullshit. Fucking bullshit.”

Dean breathes deep, still unmoving as he tries to settle his nerves. The thoughts hadn’t been his own. As good as the idea sounded, it was careless and conceited. What mattered is getting Sam out of the ordeal alive, and Castiel too.

Concentrating on the amulet again, Dean pushes forward.

He tiptoes around a tiny hole he finds, and it might be nothing, or it might be something, so he inspects the surrounding area before skipping over. Nothing happens, much to his relief.

Dean starts by counting how many paces he’s taken, but eventually loses count when he reaches five hundred. Time stretches out for what feels like days, but he doesn’t grow tired, or weak, or hungry. He just keeps going.

A relieved sigh escapes unbidden when he finally sees a change in the endless corridor. In front of him are steps, a dozen of them, the same shade of black as the floor he’s slinking over. Its edges are bathed with gold.

At the very top lie three boxes.

Dean forgets himself in a moment of euphoria, running up onto the platform with a victorious laugh. 

Three stone boxes are placed in the form of a triangle. All of them are exactly the same, from the smooth texture of their sides to the carved imagery on their lids. Within a geometric sun sits the god above all Egyptian deities, with a disk above his head.

Amun-Ra.

The name comes to Dean like he has known it from the very start.

Flexing his fingers, Dean shuffles his feet and thinks.

The box at the pinnacle of the triangle is open, revealing an empty chamber. The Book of Thoth once laid within it, and a thrill courses down Dean’s spine like a jolt of electricity. He had been right.

The myth – or actual account, now that Dean’s facing cold hard facts – spoke of two boxes, not three. But he figures that the subject of quantity may have been something lost in translation, and has no real effect on the situation before him.

Two boxes, and the Ankh of Thoth is in one of them.

The amulet around Dean’s neck tugs towards the box on the bottom left, but something else is nagging at Dean’s thoughts. 

How wise would it to be to bring the ankh to the surface? Never mind how he’ll get there, but the fact that he’ll have to put the artifact in the wrong hands makes his stomach churn.

He thinks again about taking the wrong artifact, but he worries about how far the con will take him. Eckhart and Victor and the others will surely find out, and then it’ll be Sam and Castiel’s head on the line.

 _But_.

It’s unfair for Dean to place his family on one end of the scale and the world on the other. He has an obligation. Dean finds himself asking what his father would do were he in his shoes, but Dean realizes that he doesn’t want to be like John. He doesn’t want to make his choices based on his duty alone.

Holding his breath, Dean reaches out his hand towards the box on the left, hesitating when his fingers are just inches away. 

The sound of quacking startles him, however, and he immediately puts his hand down and turns towards the sound. Wide-eyed and shaking, Dean laughs at the bird that waddles across the room in an easy stride. The coincidence is far too absurd for Dean to simply brush off.

The bird is white, its head featherless and neck black. Its curving beak is the color of sand, and taps the floor as it walks to and fro, occasionally turning its head to look in Dean’s direction.

Now isn’t the time to get distracted, he tells himself, turning back to the boxes.

After another lengthy moment of hesitation, Dean’s hand hovers over the box on the right. Behind him, the ibis squawks.

_What do you seek?_

Dean flexes his fingers over the box.

The sound of ocean waves slosh in his ear, and the words come in the form of whispers from within a conch. They reverberate in his head like the cry of the bird. Distant and muddled, but the meaning is clear. Dean isn’t sure if the words are in English, but he can understand them. He isn’t even sure if the words are real, but he hears them.

Maybe it’s the ibis talking to him. Or perhaps the box. Or maybe he’s just nuts.

_What do you covet, wanderer?_

Dean’s pretty damn sure that’s a woman’s voice, too, but there’s no one in the room with him, aside from the bird that’s now staring at him like he’s a crown jewel. Rich, considering that birds don’t care about things such as jewels and the like.

_You hold a balance within yourself, and you are troubled. What is it that you seek?_

He’s already stuck in a fantastical void, he figures. What difference does a disembodied voice, which may not be a voice at all, make? He lingers on his answer.

“Sam’s safety.” 

Dean slaps a hand over his mouth.

He hadn’t even settled on what he wanted to say, and yet the words fly out of him without his consent.

He tries again.

“To go home— _dammit_.” Dean doesn’t mean to say that either. “What the hell is going on?”

From the ibis – separating like a drop of water – comes an ostrich.

Its huge body stands stock still, but its feathers sway in a nonexistent breeze.

Dean thinks he should feel fear, or worry, because this feels like judgment. He’s standing before a jury, and his heart is being laid bare to these ancient symbols without his permission. The former street thug in Dean wants to lash out, to maim in self-defense, but the needs melt away without a trace.

_The City of Amun-Ra holds no treasure for mortal eyes. Why do you seek it?_

The words are monotone, but he feels an inkling of defensiveness at the end.

“Because I was asked to,” he says, attempting to sound placating. “Look, I hate flying, okay? I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been forced to.”

_What do you seek?_

Instead of being angry at the repetitiveness of the phrase, Dean feels relief.

“My father. He’s been taken hostage by the enemy.”

_What do you seek?_

“A way to get him back, safely. And Cas, too. Like I said, I just want to get everything over with and go home. The riches can stay at the city, I don’t care—”

He falls quiet at a silent command.

_Noble of heart. Pure of soul. There is a quandary._

After opening his mouth, Dean closes it again. He nods.

_Don’t hesitate to speak, wanderer._

It may be his imagination, but the words sound genial.

“I—I know what’s important to me.” Taking in a sharp breath, he slowly lets it go. “But I’m afraid it doesn’t have the same worth to the rest of the world.”

The ostrich shakes its feathers, making Dean take a step back. The bird is huge, and the last thing he wants is to get charged by it.

_You are but a human._

“Yeah, I kinda know that, thanks.”

_The weight upon your soul is vast and undeserved._

Dean takes another step back when the ostrich walks towards him, ascending the short steps to stand by him. The bird smells faintly of incense.

Without prompting, the ostrich taps its beak over the box on the left.

_Khonsu’s Key will grant you passage, and no harm will come to your loved ones while in the city of Amun-Ra. Remain truthful, and the wicked will receive their punishment once the Wall of Mut falls._

Dean watches in rapt fascination as the wooden box grinds open. There’s no light or mystical sound as he has been expecting. Inside rests a golden ankh the size of his hand.

The amulet around his neck scorches him through the fabric of his shirt.

The ankh is cold to the touch, as if it’s been bathed in ice for weeks on end. Hissing, Dean withdraws his hand and blows on it.

Looking around the room, he reaches for a robe that lies discarded on the floor. The fabric looks distinctly Roman, as old as everything else around him, and there’s a flurry of ashes staining the bottom hem. Mentally apologizing, Dean rips a strip off it.

Still cold, Dean gingerly wraps the ankh within the soiled cloth.

While slipping it inside his shirt, he asks “What’s in the other box?”

But the room is vacant with the exception of him.

“Huh. Wait… How the hell am I supposed to get back?! Hey!” He spins around on the spot, looking for a way out. “You could have at least—”

_Beware, for the serpents will guide you, wanderer._

Dean exhales. “Thanks.”

But the puzzled relief is short lived.

From behind the towering columns slither two snakes that look like they could swallow Dean whole, and still have space to eat a cow.

Long and coiling, their skin is black and oily, with the occasional red tissues that signify having been stabbed at a few moments in their lives. Instead of eyes, there are two jade stones in their sockets.

They stink of rotten eggs.

The calming air of the ibis and ostrich now feels poisoned, and Dean gets the urge to run. 

And that he does.

Fangs snap at his heels, guttural growls coming close to licking at his neck as he darts down twilit corridors filled with ungodly effects.

He runs, pushing himself past the limits of his own speed and strength, but the strange absence of life keeps him from getting tired and from hurting. That doesn’t stop him from thinking. It’s the worst kind of torture imaginable. That is, until the halls explode into sudden darkness.

Dean trips over a mound of what he imagines are plates, the material clanking and causing a racket within the void. He can’t stop, not even to gather his wits and decide which way to go, because there’s nowhere _to_ go, not that he can see. The serpents are close behind, and there’s nothing he can do but start running again, and hope that he’ll somehow make it out alive.

He takes turns at random, left and right and right again, and not once does he run into a wall or any other object. He wonders if he’s been led to believe that he’s inside a maze, when instead it’s just an empty room: an endless, dark, and empty room, devoid of air and sound.

But he can still feel them, the serpents, lurking in his shadow.

Dean still runs, even when the smell of rotten eggs worsens, mixing with the stench of gas and melting rock. The ground turns hot and he can feel it beneath the soles of his shoes, melting away the rubber and forcing him to slow his stride.

The snakes are there, writing and hissing and promising unfathomable things.

Desperate to get away, Dean kicks off his shoes.

Biting down a scream, he keeps on running.

Through fire and brimstone, Dean keeps running.

The amulet around his neck is once again lifeless, and the ankh pressed to his chest no longer feels cold. Nothing offers comfort or peace; nothing lets him breathe.

The fabric of reality melts away into oblivion, the darkness all-consuming and unending as Dean moves through it, looking for a way back into the world.

He runs for hours, days, weeks, months, and years. He runs for centuries. A millennia flashes by, and so does another. There’s an eternity layered by another eternity, and Dean can no longer feel his feet, for there are no feet to feel. He’s learned to balance himself on the stubs of bone protruding through his flayed flesh. There’s nothing in his wake but the blood and muscle that feeds the serpents that will continue to pursue for all of eternity.

And still he runs.

Dean runs because Sam is waiting. 

He runs because Castiel needs someone to tend to his wounds. 

He runs because John is somewhere out there. 

Dean runs because home is just on the other side of the void.

A wall of solid rock towers in front of him; rising high with every step he takes in his unending hurtle towards the finish line. It stands across a valley of red rock. The snakes are still close behind.

All around him the wails of tormented beings shake him to the ribs, haunting and nightmarish. They pull at his jacket, at the hem of his pants, they call for him to help, but he can’t stop, not now.

He should fear colliding with the rock wall, but he doesn’t. He can’t stay in this valley of the dead, not when Anubis sits above the wall, looking down with the face of jackal. By his side sits Osiris, his staff poised.

Dean can’t stop, he has too much momentum, and when he braces himself, he careens into the wall.

Mind separates from body when an eternity of feeling and knowledge is tipped on its head. Rock feels like water, breathing feels like drowning, and nothingness is everything while everything is nothing.

The birth and death of a star occurs within Dean’s human mind, sucking in debris and reforming it into something omnipotent.

Dean _sees_.

Creatures, monsters, darkness, demons, angels, gods, grass, galaxies, machines, a kiss, a horse, Death, War, Famine, Pestilence, locusts, the beginning and the end.

Dean dies a thousand deaths and breathes a million intakes of life.

And finally, at long last, despite the serpents digging their fangs into the flesh of his heel, Ma’at extends her ostrich-feathered hands, and pulls Dean from the depths of the Underworld and the jaws of Ammit.

❖

The sound of a commotion is what wakes Sam up from a fitful sleep. The agitated shouting, along with the thumping of hurrying boots makes him wobble to his feet.

He’s rubbing his eyes when his tent is opened, the sun slipping in and momentarily blinding him.

“He’s back,” says Eckhart’s silhouette, and Sam nearly collapses when his knees begin to tremble. “Your brother’s back.”

❖

No one bothers holding Sam back when he runs across the sandy banks of the Nile, towards Dean’s waterlogged and comatose body.

He collapses before he can reach him, and crawls on all fours, kicking sand and water as he goes, until he’s grappling his brother’s shirt and pulling him onto his lap.

Tears sting his eyes, a mixture of desperation and relief surging through him with such force that he’s left gasping for any sound he can make. A sob, a yell, a cry; all he can do is gasp again and again, gently tapping Dean’s cheeks.

“Dean—Dean, hey, come on, man. Open your eyes, please.” Sam maneuvers Dean’s body so that he’s lying on his side, and shouts with rage when a soldier walks up to them and wrenches Dean away.

It’s a brief struggle once Sam realizes what it is the man wants, and he allows him to take the bundle he finds tucked in Dean’s shirt after a brief pat down.

Sam pulls Dean back into the previous position, and hits his back.

But Dean is breathing, he tells himself, and it’s true. He can see the irregular rise and fall of his chest, despite how cold he feels under the sweltering desert sun.

“It’s me, Dean. Hey, hey, I’m here. It’s okay, we’re okay.” His words melt away into nonsense as he rocks Dean in his arms, trying to believe that he’s okay despite being unresponsive.

Sam weeps when Dean gasps, coughs, and opens his eyes.

❖

“You’ve been gone for three days,” Sam says, holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup on his lap. He’s sitting across from Dean, who is wrapped in heavy blankets and sits cross-legged on the tent floor.

No one has disturbed them yet.

“Eckhart was getting me ready to take the dive at noon,” he explains, scooping up more noodle than soup and holding it to Dean’s mouth.

Dean remains inert.

His green eyes are tinged red, and they stare vacantly at nothing. Sam’s managed to change him into dry clothes, combed his hair, and gets him a drink of water. Other than that, Dean is unresponsive to the world around him.

Grief thrashes in Sam’s stomach, preventing him from keeping anything down himself.

Learning what happened beneath the Nile can wait, plotting how to stop the Nazis will also have to wait, and Sam can and will wait, despite how impatient a person he is.

Putting down the spoon and bowl, Sam sighs. “You have to eat, Dean. Y-You have to sleep… you have to… you have to move, do _something_ , please, anything,” he whispers, words despairing. “At least tell me if you’re going to be okay… if you’re going to snap out of this.”

When he says nothing, Sam buries his face in his hands and curses.

Behind him, the tent flap is pulled aside.

“I’ve got magnificent news, gentlemen,” Bela announces, taking a step inside. “Dean here was successful and got us the ankh. And pretty boy Castiel is well on his way to translating the full map. Isn’t that joyful?”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just gives her a withering glare.

“This means that no one’s going to be killing you, yet. Count your blessings.”

Picking up the bowl, Sam tries to feed Dean once again.

The display seems to make Bela uncomfortable, for she starts fidgeting in place and turns to look away. She says, “Eckhart sent me to tell you that you have until tonight to recover. Tomorrow we’ll be moving on towards wherever we have to go.” She waves a hand in front of her, as if dispelling Eckhart’s nonsense. “I suggest you hurry it up.”

Her words are cold, even if her eyes linger on Dean with a hint of pity.

Sam doesn’t watch her go.

Putting down the bowl for the second time, Sam starts when he notices Dean’s eyes move to focus on him.

He doesn’t budge, only stares back, hoping that it isn’t some illusion born from anguish.

But then Dean says “Sammy?” and Sam can’t hold back the sound he makes.

“Jesus Christ, Dean—”

Dean’s fingers flex where they rest over his lap, but he otherwise doesn’t move. “Sam.”

“I’m here,” Sam says, inching closer and adjusting the blanket over Dean’s shoulders. “I’m right here.”

His eyes are still unblinking and vacant, but he’s looking at Sam now, and that alone is a triumph.

There’s a rise of voices outside tent, and Sam holds his breath until it passes.

“Dean, I—”

“Water.”

“Water, yeah, I’ll get you some right now.” Sam scrambles to get up, and grabs the canteen he keeps besides his makeshift sleeping bag. “What happened down there? I mean, you don’t have to tell me yet if you’re feeling out of it, but,” he kneels back down in front of Dean, and puts the canteen to his lips.

Dean gulps it down desperately, water sloshing down his cheeks and neck, and soaking his clothes. Sam puts it down and grabs a hand towel, dabs it to Dean’s face. He already cleaned the muck and soot from Dean’s face, but there are beads of sweat now gathering along his brow.

“Cas,” Dean says instead, breathing labored. “You got… get Cas.”

Sam frowns, but before he can explain that he still doesn’t know where they’re keeping him, Dean tells him.

“There’s a camp – some forty-five minutes from here.” Dean takes a breath, and clenches his hands into fists. “An oasis next to a town.”

“How do you know he’s there?”

Dean’s top lip twitches awkwardly, as if trying to form a smirk or a sneer. “Go get him. The city… it won’t work without him.”

A speck of annoyance compels Sam to breathe deep. “Dean, I can’t leave you by yourself.”

“Sam, please,” Dean croaks, eyes losing focus only to sharpen again. “Tonight. It has to be tonight.”

Flexing his jaw, Sam hesitates for a long moment before giving his brother a terse nod.

❖

Sam is tucked in his sleeping bag when a guard comes in to check on him at exactly 11:15 PM. He isn’t asleep, but he watches through an eye that’s opened just a bit as the guard steps inside and verifies that they’re both there.

Dean lets out a choked whimper, and Sam fists the sheet that covers him.

He hates the fact that Dean will have to be alone for heck knows how long it will take him to get Castiel. A guard may come in again, however low the chances are, and find Dean alone. He’ll most likely be kicked awake and interrogated, and once they get a load of Dean’s catatonic state, Sam knows they won’t hesitate to resort to violence.

The guard walks out again, and Sam waits, feeling sick to his stomach.

Seconds tick by before the lanterns outside are dimmed, and it’s minutes of silence before Sam deems it safe to move.

Slow and steady, Sam creeps out from underneath his sheets.

He leaves a canteen filled with water by Dean’s side, just in case he wakes up during the night. He makes sure that he’s tucked in properly, enough to keep the desert cold away from him. Once he’s done there, Sam slinks back to his sleeping area, and stuffs the sheets with his pillow.

In the long hours of the afternoon, he had prepared a satchel with the tools from a first aid kit they had given him for Dean. A ruined shirt, a needle and thread intended to stitch up wounds, and a long roll of bandages that now functions as a strap.

Inside it Sam keeps water, a lighter, his Swiss army knife, and Dean’s gun. It’s not much, but it’ll help him survive in case of a delay.

Swinging the satchel over his head, Sam grabs Dean’s hat, simply because it’s cold out, and he needs to keep his head warm. Lastly, Sam grabs his jacket.

Instead of slipping out through the front, Sam drops to his knees and peeks underneath the back area of the tent. There’s another tent ten feet away, but there are no lights to signal anyone inhabiting it.

Looking from left to right, and seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, Sam slips out of the tent in a leopard crawl.

This area of the camp is dark, with only the moon illuminating the zigzagging paths.

Towards the center of the camp is a fire pit, and it’s then that Sam understands the absence of soldiers up and about. Everyone is gathered along the fire, drinking and being merry because they finally have what they’ve been searching for.

At the head of the circle, Eckhart holds up the ankh with awed wonder.

He’s giving a speech in German, his words fluid and smooth and Sam has to concentrate to understand what he’s fully saying.

_Die Zukunft gehört uns!_

Hearts racing in his chest, Sam turns away.

_The future belongs to us._

Certain that no one will spot him if he’s careful, Sam straightens up into a crouched position and deftly makes his way towards the camp’s perimeter.

A guard is on the floor, snoring loudly where he’s slumped over a beer mug, back to a palm tree.

Sam blows a bird whistle that’s loud enough to wake, and when the soldier only jerks to continue snoring, Sam sags in relief.

He moves quick, frequently looking around to make sure he hasn’t been spotted.

Drawing out his knife, he cuts through the rope that keeps one of the horses tied to a palm tree. It’s a lot more difficult than he expected it to be, but he chuckles when the rope finally pulls apart.

Sam shushes the horse when it begins to complain, clopping against the sand and turning away from him, but he quickly gets it under control by stroking along its head. “Hey, hey, it’s okay boy, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

He looks to his side, making sure that the guard is still sleeping. When he sees the soldier still out like a light, Sam grins.

Grabbing hold of the saddle, Sam climbs up with ease.

He’s never ridden a horse before, but how hard can it be?

Shushing the horse along the way, Sam guides it until they’re way out of hearing range; with an excited _”heeyah!”_ , the horse breaks into a hurried gallop.


	10. Chapter 10

The wind’s howls are severe to the point in which an order to better secure the tents had been issued. The desert night is freezing, uncomfortable enough to keep officers and soldiers alike indoors. Fires have been set ablaze to fight off the cold, and dozens of sheets, raided from the nearby village, now line Victor’s well-equipped tent.

Castiel feels the chill settle in his bones, making them ache.

His fingers and toes hurt too much to move, even while sitting in front of the high-voltage lantern Victor keeps at the middle of his tent. Despite fearing a fire, Castiel keeps close to it.

At least the tent’s floor is covered with layers of luxurious rugs and animal skins. Reminiscent of a palace, there are fancy divans, elegant desks, and tapestries lining the walls. Castiel considers it an abomination. This entire situation is disgusting and offensive, but all he can do is sit and work as commanded.

Castiel can work under threats of torture, but with the brothers’ safety at stake, he can’t and won’t take any chances. Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters. Only, it’d be easier if bleeding were a more literal thing.

He shivers, feeling cold and miserable as he’s currently exposed. Regardless of how many sheets he layers over his legs and shoulders, there’s no fighting the chill of being semi-nude. He does marvel, for a brief instant, how Ancient Egyptians had been able to weather such extreme climates.

He’s startled when a tea kettle begins to whistle.

“Sounds like our drinks are done,” Victor says, appearing by the tent door and stepping inside. “Or will be in a few seconds. Hope you don’t mind the wait.”

Castiel refrains from looking at him, focusing instead on the heat of the lantern before him. He closes in on himself, coiling tighter in the cocoon of sheets. When he pulls against the scarring tissues at his side, Castiel allows himself enough slack to not hurt himself.

Behind the divan, Victor arranges the fine china: tiny teacups placed on delicate saucers belonging to the Quing Dynasty. At least the tea smells exquisite, but it may just be the hunger chiming in on the argument. He’s eaten nothing but oatmeal for the past three days.

Castiel flinches when the teacup is placed on the floor in front of him, and jerks away when Victor gently touches Castiel’s head.

“Chamomile to soothe those nerves,” he says, and walks towards his divan.

Castiel twists in place so that he’s facing Victor, but not looking at him. He knows better than to present his back to the enemy. A particularly loud gust of wind makes Castiel shudder, and as a result, he takes his tea. He could use something to calm him.

“I received news from Eckhart’s camp.” Castiel looks up at that. “Mr. Winchester has resurfaced.”

The teacup rattles against the saucer, even while Castiel tries to hold it still. His heart races, he feels lightheaded, and he leans close enough to not miss a word. “Is he all right?” His voice is cracked from disuse.

Victor smiles, and takes a sip from his tea. “He’s alive, and he brought us the ankh.”

The sensation is similar to a shower of warm water; it’s comforting and gentle against his abused skin. Castiel huffs out a shaky laugh as relief spreads inside his chest and stomach. “Thank God.”

“God has nothing to do with it, darling,” Victor says, his smile turning smug. “And if the information is accurate, the professor should be on his way here. Gallant fellow, thinking he can save his brother’s prince.”

The heat the cup emits feels glorious on Castiel’s fingers. Knowing that Sam is on his way to get him does trouble him, but he’s too overcome with contentment to think ill of it. One step closer; they are one step closer to ending this dreadful journey.

“And I assume you’re going to let me walk out with him, aren’t you? Lead the way into the city?”

“That’s exactly what I am going to do, Castiel. Have tonight with your charming companions, for tomorrow we will find you regardless of where you’ve gone.”

Castiel breathes deep, the rich aroma dancing around his nose and warming everything within him. He takes a cautious sip, and hums at the pleasant taste.

“There will be no throwing you off our scent, I see,” Castiel says, feeling brave enough to challenge him. “What makes you think we’ll simply allow you into the city?”

“We have guns.”

Castiel musters an honest smile. “And they have me.” It’s a good a bluff as any, but if the Winchesters taught Castiel anything, it’s to be resourceful. So he uses the knowledge he’s obtained over the past couple of days.

Victor’s laugh is loud and sudden, and he puts down his teacup in favor of clapping his hands with mirth. “That’s more like it! If you’ve got the power, you wield it. Of course, the power of Thoth doesn’t grant you immortality… I can still shoot you.”

Castiel’s eyes widen, more out of pity than actual shock. “We’ve discussed this already. No one knows what’s inside the city and no one will until we step inside.”

“And we’re going to step inside,” Victor says, pulling out a handgun from inside his jacket, and balancing it on his knee. “Isn’t that right, angel?”

Castiel takes one more sip of his tea before setting the cup down on its saucer. For the first time since his arrival at Qift, Castiel holds Victor’s eyes without fear. “We’ll just have to wait and see,” he says, coolly.

Humming thoughtfully, Victor looks at the clock that stands beside the tent’s opening. It’s half past midnight.

“I’m glad that we’ve had this brief yet interesting conversation,” Victor announces, getting up and adjusting his jacket. “But I’m afraid I have other business to attend to. Mainly verifying that our caravan is ready to pack up for the last stretch of this expedition.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, sounding far too polite even to himself. Bringing his attention back to the lantern, Castiel gives no sign of noticing the shadow moving along the back of the tent. “I suggest you wear gloves. Wouldn’t want to lose fingers due to frostbite.”

Victor snorts. “It’s nowhere near as cold.”

Castiel gives a graceful shrug. “Suit yourself. Also, is there any way of knowing when Sam will arrive?” 

He’s ready to bet, judging by the size of the shadow alone, that Sam is already here. 

The shadow disappears behind a stack of beer kegs.

“Message was received via telegram some thirty minutes ago. He should be around here somewhere by now.” And with that, Victor slinks out into the cold night.

Castiel waits until he hears the footsteps receding before getting up, blankets tight around him, and hurrying to the neatly organized structure made out of wooden barrels. He leans over them and blindly taps his fist along the tent’s tarp, huffing out a laugh when he hits something, and that something complains.

“Sam? Please tell me that’s you.”

A moment of stillness stretches out, and Castiel is already starting to step back with caution, when the material is heaved upwards, and Sam’s head pops in with a sputter.

Castiel laughs from sheer joy. “I’m so glad to see you,” he says, moving around the barrels to help pull up the tarp for Sam to slip inside.

“Likewise,” Sam grunts, shimming himself free.

Castiel steps away to grant him enough space to stretch his limbs, and once that’s over, he doesn’t really know what else to do. They both stand there, looking around, until Castiel awkwardly extends his hand. “I suppose this is where I say thank you.”

Sam looks down at the offered hand. “Uh, yeah.” He clears his throat. “Sure thing, don’t mention it.” Probably because he has no other choice, he shakes it with an awkward chuckle.

“I figure it’s obvious that you’ve already heard Victor’s plans,” Castiel says, heading towards the front flap to verify their privacy.

“Honestly, I’m intrigued about this whole _Thoth’s power_ thing,” he says, edging on suspicious. “What’d I miss?”

Castiel sighs, stepping away from the door. “I’ll explain once we’re on the way. How’s Dean?” Taking the look on Sam’s face into consideration, Castiel frowns. He steps forward. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”

Sam walks across the tent, rummages through Victor’s desk. Castiel watches, but thinks it useless to tell him that Victor doesn’t keep anything that may cause anyone harm in the tent. He isn’t that stupid. Victor will grant his enemies a margin of movement, false comfort, but never an easy way out.

“He’s seen better days, but he’ll jump back.” Pressing a hand over his face, Sam straightens up and offers Castiel a nod that is meant to pacify. “Dean always does.”

“What happened? I heard he found the ankh but other than that…”

“I’ll fill you in on the way back, I promise.”

Castiel is about to agree, but a thought strikes him. “Are we really going to risk heading back to the camp? You heard what Victor said.”

“We don’t really have much of a choice,” Sam explains, already climbing over the barrels when he finds nothing useful. “Dean is still there, and if they know I’m gone, heh, God knows what they’ve done to him.”

Distress sinks into Castiel’s stomach like poison. He stops Sam with a hand to the elbow. “Why didn’t he come with you? Why did he send you instead of coming himself?”

“Nice to know my efforts are appreciated.”

“You know what I mean, Sam,” Castiel says, voice hard. “Tell me what happened to Dean.”

On the other side of the barrels, Castiel watches an array of emotions cross Sam’s face before settling on annoyance. “Look, Dean isn’t himself right now, and he might be in trouble if we don’t hurry back. We gotta move, Cas.”

Before Castiel can either agree or argue, Sam is already crouching down and slipping outside.

Casting the tent one last miserable look, Castiel sheds his sheets, and reluctantly follows Sam into the freezing cold.

❖

“Whoa,” Sam says, loud enough to make Castiel flinch. “Why the hell are you wearing a _skirt?_ ”

They’ve made it as far as the camp perimeters without incident, and Castiel is now convinced that Victor knows Sam is here, and that they are currently making their escape. He has made sure to stay one step behind Sam all the way, but now that they’ve reached the horses, it’s hard to stay out of his eyesight.

“It’s a shendyt,” Castiel defends, wrapping his arms around his midriff.

“N-No, I know…I know what it is.” And of course he does. Castiel would have otherwise questioned his title as an archeology professor. “Is that…legitimate?”

Sam eyeing him makes Castiel uncomfortable. “As authentic as it gets, I’m afraid. This should be in a museum, not in the desert fueling some sick fetish.” Avoiding further explanation, Castiel helps Sam untie one of the horses. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

But looking at Sam, Castiel notices that it isn’t his state of undress that Sam is focusing on.

“Is that…new?” Sam asks, already advancing until Castiel takes a hesitant step back. “I’m sorry, I’m not going to—”

“No,” Castiel says, shaking his head. He licks his lips. “Berlin.”

“I have salve in my bag,” Sam says, and he’s opening the satchel before Castiel can protest. “Here.”

“Do you normally carry that around?” He tries to joke, but the question comes out terse and clipped, his teeth chattering in the cold.

“Put it on,” Sam says, stern but gentle. Castiel takes the small metal container and unscrews the cap. By his side, Sam removes his jacket. “And wear this. Night’s too cold to ride shirtless.”

Castiel warily dabs the salve on the scabbing wound in the shape of a swastika. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, but the surrounding area is still tender to the touch.

Putting the cap back, he hands it over to Sam, and takes his jacket. “Thank you, Sam. I truly am grateful for your help.”

Sam slips the container back into his satchel and shudders against the cold. “Don’t mention it,” he says, grabbing his horse and mounting it. “Now let’s get a move on. See if we can get back to the camp before the sun rises.”

The last time Castiel had been on a horse, he had been twelve and spent the summer in Liverpool. But just like riding a bike, it isn’t something you forget. Grabbing on to the saddle’s pommel, and hooking a foot on the stirrup, Castiel swiftly mounts the steed on the first try.

Luckily, he’s wearing a warrior’s shendyt, and its short length allows him to move freely.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you, uh, well, grab your clothes before we leave?”

Castiel chuckles, or maybe it’s his teeth clattering, because he’s been expecting the question. “I’ve looked everywhere for them, Sam. I’m certain Victor had them burned. I wouldn’t be wearing this if I had trousers at my disposal.”

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Sam mutters to himself, but Castiel can still hear him. “That’ll wake Dean up faster than a lightning bolt.”

The remark would have been humorous if not for the underlying connotations regarding Dean’s current state. He means to ask Sam again now that they’ll be on their way, but he holds back, fearing that the truth may be more terrible than the explanations his mind offers him.

“You ready to go?” he hears Sam say, and he nods without paying much attention.

They head off into the west, towards the river.

Neither of them speaks until the Nazi camp and village are far behind them, and nothing but sand and the occasional desert weed crosses their path. They slow to a hurried trot when the cold wind becomes too much to handle.

Nothing but the moon illuminates their path.

Castiel is sore all over, he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a very long time, and the calming herbs he drank a half hour ago are beginning to calm him too much. With their slow gallop, his head lolls and he jerks himself up, rapidly blinking his eyes to keep himself from falling asleep.

“You want to tell me about this power thing Victor was talking about?” Sam asks, very loudly.

Castiel is both relieved and weary. “It’s more of a theory based on a myth, really. You’d be surprised by how resolute these people are about believing in supernatural forces.” Flexing his neck, Castiel yawns. “I figured it’d be wise to use that to my advantage, make myself seem like a potential threat.”

Sam brings up his horse close to Castiel. He figures the wind is carrying away his voice. “So… what, they think you’re some sort of chosen one?”

Castiel mulls it over. “Not quite. More like a key. A translator…” he lets the word melt away. There’s another word to describe it, but he can’t quite find it. “A conduit,” he finishes.

“Conduit for what?”

“No idea. Victor is convinced that it’s in my blood; that it was chosen by the gods that I commit to this mission and see it through.”

“The mission to help the Axis Powers win the war?”

“To unlock the power within the city,” Castiel says, licking his cracked lips.

Sam stays quiet for a long moment, before sighing. “This makes me nervous.”

Castiel chuckles. “I’d be worried if you weren’t.”

“No, I mean, think about it. Dean is the one that got the ankh, you’re the conduit. Whatever that means… What about me?”

He’s right, and Castiel wonders just how he hadn’t seen it before. Everything comes in an assortment of threes. He can’t help but fret about Sam’s involvement, for he doesn’t recall Victor saying anything on the subject.

“Did Victor say anything about what they’re expecting to find in the city? If you’re the conduit, then there has to be some information on what they’re after, right? Any myth you two talked about in particular?”

“He mentioned Ra, but I doubt that’s useful.”

Sam snorts. “Ra, of course. That only narrows it down to about a thousand myths regarding the Egyptian pantheon.”

“It does, actually,” Castiel says, burrowing deeper into the jacket. “Ra is a sun god, which means the ritual to opening the city isn’t by night, as Portia thought it would be.”

Sam’s huff, after a moment of tense silence, sounds relieved. “Which means we didn’t miss the opportunity with the full moon?”

“It would seem so.”

“All right, recap time. Thoth, moon god, is the key to the city of Ra, sun god.”

Concentrating on Sam’s voice, an echo of a memory teases the borders of Castiel’s conscious. He chases it, only to realize that it’s more of a theory than an actual memory. There are bits and pieces of myths and lectures he’s attended through the years, and there’s something, _something_ , that connects it all.

“Oh, my God,” Castiel says, when it finally shifts into place. “Amun-Ra. The City of Amun-Ra.”

“What?”

“Sam, the ankh that Dean found, are you sure that it’s the Ankh of Thoth?”

Sam blinks at him, looking confused. “I didn’t see it, but I suppose it is? Eckhart was ecstatic over the thing.”

“Three, the number is _three_.”

“Cas?”

“Thoth used to be the moon god before becoming the god of wisdom. The title was inherited by Khonsu, who was the son of Amun and Mut. Amun then became Amun-Ra – the father of all gods.”

Sam’s nod is slow and measured. “I follow, but I don’t see what you mean…” but his eyes are widening before he can finish his own sentence. “Cas, you’re a genius!”

Castiel grins. “The triad.”

“Thebes,” Sam says, the word joined by a laugh. “The City of Amun-Ra is in Luxor!”

“Which means Victor had been right,” Castiel says, rolling with the revelation. “The city should be just south of Cairo.”

“That’s a six hour trip, on a boat. How long do you think it’ll take us by horse?”

Running a hand across the horse’s mane, Castiel huffs. “Eight hours, approximately.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to outrun Eckhart and his men?”

Sam’s enthusiasm is a nice change of pace, but Castiel has to shake his head. “Do you honestly think they won’t be waiting for us the moment we arrive at the camp?”

A particularly sharp gust of wind leaves Sam sputtering, and Castiel squinting when sand gets in his eyes.

The desert climate is severe in every way possible, and part of Castiel wishes that they won’t be waiting for them, just so he can settle down on a cot and sleep for a few hours, basking in the knowledge that Dean is safe.

“Dean says we’ll be safe inside the city,” Sam says, and Castiel looks at him.

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing much. I thought he was delusional, that it was the fever talking.”

Castiel swallows around the knot in his throat. “He didn’t mention Amun-Ra?”

“I’m saying that he didn’t mention much of anything. He told me where you’d be, told me to come get you because it was important; said we’ll be safe inside the city.”

Thumb scratching against the horse’s reins, Castiel sniffs. “How did he know where I was?”

The question hangs heavy, and Castiel infers that Sam himself is still having trouble coming to terms with whatever it was that happened with Dean.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, sounding tired beyond his years. “I went in blind. God knows I wasn’t expecting to find you, and yet… there you were. He mentioned that you had to be there to find the city, and then this, and… I don’t know what to think, or what to say.”

_God of wisdom._

Sickening dread twists and thrashes in Castiel’s gut. He has no idea what happened during his absence, but he can already tell that the consequences are less than favorable.

“Did he go into the river?” Castiel asks, recalling Dean’s telling of the myth.

Sam casts him a blank look, and nods. “He was gone for three days. Washed up on shore this morning.” At Castiel’s gasp, he adds: “Alive. He’s alive.”

A cloud of despair looms overhead, and Castiel develops trouble breathing. Thankful of being mounted on a horse, his knees begin to tremble, and he’s certain he wouldn’t be able to stand even if he tried. Worry and grief cut through him so sharply that his eyelashes grow wet with unshed tears.

“Promise me he’s okay, Sam.” His words waver, and he relies solely on his horse to guide the way. “Please.”

Sam is quiet for a long moment, but eventually reassures him. “He’s alive and breathing, Cas, I promise. He most likely needs a couple of days to recover, but he’ll be fine.”

It isn’t much to go on, but Castiel nods. For now, it’s enough.

“On the bright side, we now have a solid heading, you’re back, and Dean is in one piece,” Sam continues, nudging Castiel’s foot with his own. “We’re gonna make it through this, Cas. Just you watch.”

Castiel tries his best to offer a smile, because Sam is right. Soon they will all be together, and together, they will be unstoppable.

They will pull through, see the journey to the very end, and save the world. The archaeologist, the treasure hunter, and the librarian.

They sound relatively harmless, but in the face of danger and ruin, to protect their family, they will give it everything they’ve got.

❖

The nudge of sleep dissolves when he and Sam arrive at the camp.

Unsurprised, Castiel slows his horse and casts Sam a glance, but the Winchester is too busy looking through the crowd to notice it.

At the mouth of the desert stand dozens of soldiers, with Eckhart at the front, looking unstoppable in his billowing black coat. He salutes them, and Castiel’s frown deepens.

“Nice of you to rejoin us, gentlemen,” Eckhart says, clapping his gloved hands together. “Just in time to head out, too. Isn’t that right, Herr Winchester?”

A young soldier pulls Dean from the crowd, keeping him upright with a hand to his chest. He’s wrapped up in blankets, head hanging low and swaying from side to side.

Eckhart is speaking again, but Castiel too busy stumbling off his horse and falling onto the sandy ground in clumsy movements driven by the need to make sure that Dean is all right. He’s vaguely aware of Sam doing the same behind him.

Castiel pushes through the wall of men who try in vain to hold him back, but with an order barked out by Eckhart, they all step back and clear the way.

The young man holding Dean in place is the last to pull away, only doing so when Castiel is within reach, letting Dean falls to his knees with a quiet groan. Castiel is there right then, heart hammering wildly within his chest as he tries to straighten Dean up, to look at him, but after several furtive tries he gives up, and lets him slump against his chest.

Wrapping his arms around him, Castiel’s breathing hitches as he whispers kind words into Dean’s ear, holding him tight enough to bruise. The movement tugs at his wound, but Castiel couldn’t care less about that.

A hand to Dean’s cheek, Castiel tries to get him to look up, to check for any signs of violence or an explanation for the frailness he’s seeing, but there’s nothing. Dean’s eyes are open and out of focus, his lips pale in the moonlight, and his skin cold to the touch. He looks lifeless, and Castiel can feel those last threads of heat flush out of his body in understanding.

But Dean breathes then, mumbles out a “Cas?” and Castiel nearly releases a wild sob.

“Yes, Dean, I’m here now,” he whispers, lips pressing against the bridge of Dean’s nose. “I’m here.”

Dean hums, lips twitching into a tiny smile. “Glad to ‘ear it.”

Castiel chuckles, still breathless and borderline panicked. “Don’t talk, my love. Save your energy.” He whispers the words to Dean’s cheek, and he smiles when those green eyes finally move to focus on him.

“That’s new,” Dean says, every word sounding like a struggle.

Castiel shushes him, holding him tight enough to fend off the cold from both their bodies. He listens to Dean’s steady breathing, feels the rhythmic beating of his heart against the palm of his hand.

It’s at that precise moment that Castiel becomes hyperaware of the silence all around him. 

Dozens of people have been stunned into silence, and he can sense his shoulders becoming tense, for he has made a huge mistake. It occurs to him now that Victor’s remarks about his and Dean’s bond have only been in jest, and that no one truly believed that the two of them, as men, have found a certain kind of comfort within each other’s arms.

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut in horror. God only knows that the mercy he and Dean are to be shown will only last until the quest has been completed. Afterwards, it’s anybody’s guess what the method of disposal will be, for there is no place for men who love men in this new world order.

A hand to Castiel’s shoulder startles him, but calm washes over him when he sees that it’s only Sam standing across from him, hands extended.

With a shuddering sigh, Castiel hands Dean over to his little brother.

The sound of shifting sand makes Castiel tense again, and looking to his side, he can see Eckhart’s silhouette approach him. Pulling the jacket closer to him, Castiel stands up and faces him, chin held high. He’s ready to defend what he has to, even if the repercussions are to be grave.

Eckhart stands inches away from him, tall and imposing, hair slick and shining under the moon. He’s a handsome fellow, Castiel decides, and it’s a shame that his foul personality and putrid soul make him so unlikable. Castiel longs to dance upon the very grave he’ll put him in.

“Herr Milton,” he says, eyes hard and nearly black in the darkness around them. “I believe you have been informed of the situation at hand?”

Castiel squares his shoulders, eyes narrowing with overwhelming anger. “I know enough.”

“Excellent. In that case, we have no need to waste time on debriefing.” The people present scatter at the wave of his hand. “We leave for Luxor in thirty minutes.”

Clenching his jaw, Castiel watches Eckhart walk away, shouting orders as he goes.

“Cas?” Sam calls from behind him.

He turns to see Sam holding a nearly catatonic Dean to his side, his arm slung around Sam’s shoulders. Wordlessly, Castiel follows him to their tent.

“We can’t risk moving Dean this way,” Castiel says once he steps inside Sam and Dean’s temporary sleeping quarters. “Even by boat it would be too risky.”

He helps Sam set Dean on the sleeping bag, then verifies that he’s securely wrapped in the blankets. Just for a moment, Castiel allows his hand to linger on Dean’s cheek for a hint of reassurance.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” he hears Sam say, but his mind is on other matters.

“How do they know where the city is located?” He and Sam pieced the puzzle together during their ride back to camp. There is no possible way for them to know.

“I told ‘em,” Dean says out of the blue, startling them both.

Castiel watches as Dean tries to straighten up, and he helps him as far as leaning him against the tent wall. There isn’t much of a difference in Dean’s appearance, his eyes still glossy and unseeing, face pale and muscle not really functioning the way they should, but he seems aware of the world around him.

Sam crouches in front of him, and places a hand on his ankle. “Dean?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, and chuckles, but his lips don’t exactly move. Castiel frowns at how disturbed he is by it.

“What do you mean?” Castiel presses, allows himself to shift and sit by Dean’s side, borrowing some of his body heat. “How did you _know?_ ”

“Sam didn’t tell you.”

It isn’t phrased as a question, which causes Castiel to give Sam a hard look. “No, he didn’t.”

“I like to call it the All-Seeing Eye effect,” Dean says with a hint of humor. His words sound looser around his tongue. “Stuff just… pops into my head.”

Finding Dean’s hand, Castiel’s squeezes it. He’s confused, troubled, but not skeptical. Castiel has witnessed enough – the last straw being Dean’s vacant eyes – to not believe in the fantastical stories weaving themselves around him.

“Like a psychic?” Castiel’s words are tentative, afraid of discovering how far is too far.

Dean answers with a squeeze of his own. “You okay?” he asks instead, thumb jerkily caressing the back of Castiel’s hand. “Victor didn’t do anything to you, did he? Besides make you wear a skirt.”

“It’s a shendyt,” Castiel and Sam say in unison, and Dean’s mouth stiffly forms into a smile.

“That’s my boys,” he says, and tries to wiggle the foot Sam is holding onto.

“We’re heading out in twenty,” Sam says while looking down at Dean’s foot. Castiel understands the open sadness worn so blatantly on his face, so he looks away in respect. “We should get ready for the trip back. At least we’ll be near Cairo. There should be a hospital there. Just in case.”

“Sounds good, Sammy.

“Cas, stay with him.”

And he doesn’t need to be told twice.

Castiel watches Sam grab two canteens and head outside.

“I’d hold you tenderly but,” Dean says jokingly, still squeezing Castiel’s hand. “I hope you understand.”

Nodding his head, Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek.

“You missed the spot. A little more towards the mouth.”

Castiel chuckles at that, and gently cradling Dean’s jaw, turns his face to soundly kiss his lips. Soft and dry, it’s nothing but a gentle press. “Better?”

Dean hums. “Much.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“I am all right,” Dean says, stiffly maneuvering himself to fall onto Castiel’s space. “My body isn’t exactly working how it should but, my mind’s crisp and clear.”

Understanding what Dean is trying to do, Castiel sits closer, wrapping his arms so that they’re as close as possible. “What happened?”

“Long story short? Thoth happened.” Dean flinches at the name. “Knowledge of the gods is a lot vaster than you may ever be able to think. Miracle I’m still talking… but that may have been Ma’at’s doing.”

It sounds like nonsense, but Castiel listens, tracing absent circles along Dean’s shoulder.

“She doesn’t like that these sons of bitches are toying with her balance. She’s a mighty fine lady once you get past the whole ostrich thing.”

Realization comes with the word ostrich, and Castiel recalls the ostrich feather common in Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. “Why was she there?” he asks, considering that the goddess of balance is usually by Osiris’ side, judging souls for the afterlife. “Dean?”

“Yeah, I may have walked through Hell for a few eternities. It’s no big deal. Not as bad as you think once you get past the tormented souls and fucking Anubis looking at you for milliseconds that feel like the force of a thousand supernovas are going off within every atom of your very being—”

“Dean…”

“Your body deteriorates after a few years, flesh and bone hanging only to come back again and you can feel it. You can feel every miserable second, every breath of fire and rot. The agonizing ache in your bones – always running, you have to run; if you don’t they’ll catch you and they’ll eat you, spit out your bones and chew on your soul—”

“Dean!” Castiel shouts loud enough to snap him out of it.

Dean’s words bring forth the jittering of a thousand fire ants prickling underneath Castiel’s skin, and his ears ring to the point where it becomes painful. He can feel something hot trickling out of them. A scream builds under his chin, and he fears that if he starts, he will never be able to stop.

There’s horror, there’s hopelessness, and it chews away at Castiel’s seams.

Dean gasps then, stopping his invocation-like words, eyes wide and terrified.

And like flipping a switch, the veil of terror is gone.

Castiel is left gasping, hand clutching at his own chest, refusing to move at all. “D—Dea—”

“I’m sorry,” he hears Dean whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry…” His breathing hitches, and his hand trembles in Castiel’s hold. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, Dean, it’s okay, don’t.” Castiel tries to sooth him, to calm him, but he can see that there is nothing he can do. Dean is withdrawing again, locking himself behind the unseeing eyes and unresponsive affliction.

Castiel remains in place, his core shaken and distressed.

Even the air inside the tent smells different, poignant with the stench of corpses locked away for a million years.

This is the power sealed inside Dean’s fragile human mind.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but Castiel turns around when he feels eyes boring into his back. Sam is standing by the door, eyes wide and gleaming with unshed tears. By his feet are three bags, and Castiel figures that he’s been there the entire time.

“What are you going to do?” Sam asks, words muffled and hoarse.

“I don’t know.” All Castiel wants to do is scream.

❖

To Sam’s relief, they head off north in a caravan of cars and tanks specially designed to weather the desert terrain. Either way, he imagines it would make little difference if they went upstream on a ship. After Dean’s episode back in the tent, Sam is assured that nothing will ever scare him to that level again. He’s afraid to even close his eyes.

He, along with Dean and Castiel, rides in the back of a Ford convertible.

His pocket watch says it’s two in the morning.

The silence in the car is absolute, with Bela riding on the passenger’s side and the driver looking too constipated to say much of anything. Dean is slumped over, fast asleep, with his head on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel dozes off, but forces himself awake every so often, shifting in his seat and better accommodating Dean’s weight.

He and Sam occasionally exchange significant looks, but not a single word is spoken. They’re on the way to Thebes, Dean is indisposed, and there isn’t a remote chance of doing anything about it.

Soon they will have to start the final chapter of their journey, and Sam fears what he will find. There is still no word from John, he misses Jessica dearly, Dean is teetering over the precipice of insanity, and the chances that Sam is the key to some big event later on during the day are pretty high.

The situation only gets increasingly worse the more he thinks about it.

Dean jerks by his side, and he’s quick to place a hand on his arm. Castiel too holds him down, but instead of a fit, Dean sags and begins snoring again.

The two of them let out a sigh.

Sam notices Bela looking at him through the rearview mirror, but neither one of them says a thing on the subject.

The car eventually crosses through Giza, but the pyramids inspire little excitement in the cold, somber night.

❖

They reach Luxor just before dawn breaks over the Valley of the Kings, and Castiel has never seen such a sight.

He’s unceremoniously hauled out of the car, and he hears Sam cursing as they do the same to him. Castiel knows he should feel affronted, should say something for the rudeness, but his heart swells with wonders born from wonders.

The sky above him is still an inky black, stars faintly glimmering every here and there. But the horizon is already turning a soft pink, the first rays of the sun creeping over the dry and rocky fields of the necropolis.

Castiel sees it, fleetingly catching the corner of his eyes before he turns to face it. The gloaming stirs awe beyond his wildest imagination as the lightening black fades into blue, and slowly begins turning into the orange of a new day. It makes shadows play along the sprawling temples of Luxor and Karnak, its monuments that hold the past in stone gates and immovable gods.

“Lord in Heaven,” Sam says from somewhere behind him, but Castiel is rapt.

The hum of cicadas fills the deathly quiet, echoing through the stone ruins.

A beat of tranquility perches over the valley, unifying them in a strange sense that smells otherworldly.

Dean appears by his side, startling Castiel. He’s standing without anybody’s help, and he looks strangely healthy in the new light.

“Sam,” Dean says, and Castiel takes a step back. The understanding flows in until it floods.

Sam is the key.

Castiel gets to stand on the sidelines for now. 

“Get the key,” Dean continues, eyes steady towards the rising sun.

Castiel watches as Sam tersely approaches Bela rather than Eckhart, both of who are wearing mirror expressions of astonishment. He asks for the ankh, and Bela holds his gaze as she produces a bundle of fabric from inside her blouse, handing it over.

Sam fumbles with the artifact, and quickly takes it to Dean.

They swap words Castiel can’t hear, and it’s only then that he notices how far Dean and Sam have walked. He can no longer see them, just their silhouettes against the brilliant sun that slowly begins its ascent. Castiel squints, hand over his eyes, but he still can’t look away from the surreal beauty.

Bela comes to stand beside him.

“For glory,” she says, holding her dainty hands to her chest.

The history lover in Castiel agrees with her; the other part, the humane part of him, simply wishes for their safety.

Side by side, they watch the dark figures move in tandem, a graceful pull and push of arms, followed by a serene pause.

Castiel sees the shape of the ankh being raised between the brothers, a black cross with a loop at its head, where the sun’s beam shines through. Sam takes it, and turns towards the rising sun.

He’s burning, Castiel’s mind whispers; he’s burning like a wick, holding the flame that consumes him within the heart of the gods. The light is but a halo of flames that purifies, sanctifies, and rebirths an entity within Sam’s body. The key.

Eventually, it becomes too difficult to look on, and Castiel turns his head to stare at the temple of Karnak, only to find that it’s no longer there. Bela realizes this too, but her gasp is canceled out by the rising chorus of cicadas, and soon they are all forced to clap their hands over their ears.

The ground beneath Castiel’s feet begins to quake. Thunder claps overhead despite there being no cloud in sight. The noise grows, the river rumbles, and the sun is blinding.

But Castiel has to look. Even if it turns him to salt, he _has_ to look, and he does.

At long last, above the Valley of the Kings, stands the ancient City of Amun-Ra.


	11. Chapter 11

For all of the nights John had spent hunched over a book at his desk, muttering in Latin and other long dead languages, Dean had never spared archaeology a second thought. Too difficult, and too fancy despite having to get your hands dirty every now and then. It wasn’t a career Dean wanted for himself, but then again, he was just a child, and all he wanted to do was ride his bike through the streets of Lawrence, Kansas once the school bell rang.

Dean became interested in Ancient Egypt at the age of fifteen, one cloudy afternoon in April, when the university had hosted an exhibit on the Rosetta Stone. It was the hieroglyphs that had captured his attention. The discs and the hawks, the elaborate headdresses and pompous jewelry, all of which Dean found himself longing to draw, had he the skill.

It became a casual hobby, later in life, a guilty pleasure he’d entertain whenever he would pick up a book for Sam to read from the local library. By then, Dean was old enough to wink at the librarian and get an extension on his borrowed book.

There was still no jail cell to lock him away, and no alcohol to hinder his path. There was still Dad to put food on the table, to help him and Sam study for their exams.

Life had still been simple.

Long years of facing the harshness of world helped Dean push on to the point where he could no longer remember where it had all gone wrong. He hit rock bottom and crawled through the muck, stripped of his dignity and left bare out in the cold. But Sam had been there to give him a hand, a spark of hope.

Dean became a citizen, rather unpleasant and still labeled a ruffian, but he no longer had to pick pockets for a bite to eat. Sam gave him a job, gave him purpose, a finish line in a series of bumps and potholes.

And now there’s this.

There isn’t much Dean can do aside from sit on the grassy ground, breath knocked out of him from the exhilaration and power of the crossing, and cry into his knees.

Dean has now bared witness to Paradise, and it’s far more remarkable than he had ever imagined throughout his life.

He remembers Sunday morning service with Mary tenderly holding his hand, a choir lifting praise and worship as Reverend Daniels read from the Good Book. Eden, the celestial plains – those are just cheap knock-offs of a much rarer wonder.

Dean sobs.

Sam stands behind him, his awe not enough to dampen his need to be protective as his hand grips Dean’s shoulder. Maybe Sam needs stability. Maybe his knees are weak, too. He’s probably still reeling from the power.

On the opposite side of Sam, Castiel is on his knees before falling back onto an ungraceful sprawl. His glasses are lopsided, cracked, but he doesn’t seem to give a damn. His cheeks are rosy.

For a long period of time, there is nothing to say, and nothing to possibly do.

The City of Amun-Ra is an architectural wonder unlike anything Dean has ever seen.

The outer walls are at least three feet thick, extending five hundred feet to each side; and since the approach to the city’s center is sloped – much like a hillside – and several parts of the pyramid-like structure rise from one another, tier on tier; the appearance of the whole resembles a theatre.

Over the stone and marble arches hangs a variety of greenery, flowers and moss.

The entire city is nothing but a garden painted in hues of green, blue, red, and gold.

Dean thinks of a wedding cake, one that is thousands of years old and built by the greatest mathematicians and architects of the era.

All around the center tower are private niches shaded in fabrics and thick trees, the entrances to huts that gleam in the sunlight.

The structures maintain the basic Arabian architectural type, but ingrained in walls are images of half men and half beasts. There is a Pegasus, a troll, a wildcat, a tree, and many other depictions belonging to equally ancient civilizations.

The air smells faintly of vanilla.

When Dean finally manages to turn his eyes away from the city revealing itself before him, growing grander and vaster as the sun continues to glide along its untouched planes, it’s to look up at Sam, who mumbles something he doesn’t catch.

“This is impossible,” Castiel says. His voice is tiny as it shakes. “This… cannot _possibly_ exist.”

Dean huffs, and allows his hand to slide across the grass and grab onto Castiel’s. He gives his fingers a light squeeze. “At this point, I don’t think anything is impossible.”

Castiel gives him a smile that warms Dean’s fingertips. “Correct me if I’m wrong but, doesn’t this resemble the Hanging Gardens of Babylon?”

It does, Dean’s mind supplies, and he’s surprised to find that the knowledge is still there, despite his ability to function like a healthy person again. “Actually, the gardens were never located in Babylon,” Dean says, smirking shyly. “Nineveh would be a more accurate location.”

Sam snorts somewhere to his left.

The moment of peaceful wonderment is ruined by the reminder that the three of them aren’t alone, and that Eckhart and his cohorts have tagged along through inter-dimensional portals. But Dean breathes serenity, because he remembers Ma’at’s promise. Here, within the City of Amun-Ra, they are safe.

“Well done,” Eckhart calls out from somewhere within the mass of bewildered soldiers. “My God, this is...this is _wunderbar_.”

Bela, too, takes a step forward, with a hand pressed to her chest and the other to her mouth. Her sparkling eyes don’t turn away from the reeds that sway in the light wind.

A pond rests at the base of the center monument.

Dean pushes himself to his feet, swats Sam away when he moves in to help him. “I’m fine.” Sam looks doubtful, but steps back regardless. He moves over to help Castiel up, however.

“I’m not sure what I was expecting but…” Sam’s chuckle is nearly hysterical, and he’s unable to finish his sentence. He shakes his head in Dean’s direction, grin nearly splitting his face in half. “Our names are in the history books, Dean.”

“You two are set for life,” Castiel adds, stepping closer to the brothers, and leaning heavily against Dean’s side. Dean imagines for a moment that they’re going to kiss, but Sam clears his throat before either of them can think further into it.

“You’re coming too, sweet cheeks,” Dean says, just in case anyone gets any ideas. Hand now on Castiel’s arm, his thumb caresses the worn thread of his shirt. “The three of us? We’re one hell of a team.” Humming with delight, Castiel gives him a smile worth a million bucks.

“First, we gotta survive whatever’s waiting for us,” Sam says, scratching at the beard that’s beginning to grow dark. He looks towards the city gates, where Eckhart is convening with Victor, Bela, and the rest of their camp. “And find a way to keep them from getting their hands on it.”

Dean gives him a nod, but his lips twitch upward. He doesn’t know the future per se, but he somehow anticipates what’s waiting for them, and he knows how to get to it and what it can do. The thoughts are muddled, hazy, but Dean can still sift through them with enough effort.

Castiel is looking at him, curiosity sprinkling the thoughtful frown. “What is it?”

Sam, too, turns towards him. “Dean?”

“Give me a second, will ya?” Taking his hat from Sam’s head, Dean shakes off the sand that it’s accumulated during the transition from desert to city, and puts it on. “I got it all under control.”

Patting Sam and Castiel’s backs, Dean works out the kinks in his shoulders, stretches his arms and legs, and swaggers towards Eckhart and company. He feels confident, unstoppable, because he knows what he has to do.

Sort of.

“Ich komme in Frieden!” Dean calls out, hands above his head to show he’s not armed. He thinks he’s hilarious, even when the group of people turns to him with murder on their faces. “We got you here, didn’t we? A simple ‘thank you’ would do.” Dean is mildly put off by the sound of cocking guns, all of them trained on him. He keeps his hands where they are. “Trigger-happy sons of bitches.”

A still-baffled Eckhart walks up to Dean, his gaze turning tight and untrusting. “The ankh?”

“Obliterated,” Dean says. “Consumed for the power needed to open the gate.” He shrugs. “A shame, too. Can you imagine how much that could have won you in the market?”

Looking unconvinced, but unwilling to argue, Eckhart lifts his chin. “And the artifact?”

“What artifact?”

“ _What artifact?_ ” comes Victor’s mocking voice. He emerges from the quiet yet alert crowd, dabbing a handkerchief to his brow and temples. “The one we’ve come to collect, Winchester.”

Dean knows very well what they’re talking about, the problem lies in explaining to them _how_ the artifact is, not _what_. He only has half a plan formulated, one that guarantees to wipe this specific troupe off the face of the planet, but he’s yet to figure out how to escape safely. Especially Castiel, who seems to be the center of the big bang.

“Oh, that one. Gentleman, I have some good news, and some bad news.”

Bela has now joined Eckhart and Victor’s sides, and behind Dean, he can sense Sam and Castiel doing the same. Everyone is hovering on his words, and the scent of power hums beneath Dean’s skin.

“Well?” Bela says, moving her hands in a gesture for him to speak. “The good news?”

And what a better thing to say than the God honest truth?

“I know where the artifact is, and who can unlock it.” Dean doesn’t have to look to know that Castiel’s back has stiffened.

“Excellent,” Eckhart says. He claps his hands, but stops mid-clap when Dean holds up a hand.

“The bad news, well, it’s bad for a reason.”

The tension is near palpable.

“Quit stalling, Dean,” Bela quips.

Taking a deep and calming intake of breath, Dean huffs it out. “There is a good chance that none of us will make it out alive.”

The sound of gurgling water is what interrupts the ominous silence, filling the stifling air with rushing sound that offers tranquility despite the doomed stench.

Finally putting down his arms when they begin to ache, Dean slips them into his pockets, and walks away towards the stone mural of a lion. The source of the water is a fountain, and rivulets trace the lion’s contours until they gather at the base. There are reeds in the tiny pool.

Dean extends his hand, wetting the tips of his fingers with the cool water. The city itself is an oasis only for the worthy, and that alone adds to the peril he knows will eventually be unleashed.

The silent trance breaks when the guns are lowered, and Dean smirks. Here, in this foreign place, his word is law.

“If you don’t believe in the gods,” Dean begins, and his voice sounds strange even to himself, “then it’s time to scrounge up those last miserable bits of faith in that measly soul of yours.”

Dean, too, has become a believer. Or rather, he’s now aware of their existence within the otherworldly realms. Demons, angels, the flayed, and the dead – it’s all well and truly real, but Dean doesn’t fear it. And neither will it have authority over him.

“So,” he says, turning to the dumbstruck group of soldiers, commanders, and civilians alike. “I say we call it a day; drink, be merry, and come tomorrow, we’ll head off into the temple and face mummies, scarabs, curses, and anything that may or may not give you the clap, yeah?”

When no one answers, Dean harrumphs. “Great. I’m calling dibs on the Pharaoh’s Suite.”

“Wait, hold on just a minute,” Victor says. Even while speaking to Dean, his eyes are fixed on the onyx monument depicting Anubis. “How do you expect us to believe you?”

Dean scratches at his beard. “I haven’t lied to you. We’re here, now, safe for the time being.”

The accusation is just for show, something to let Eckhart’s soldiers feel better about taking blind orders from the treasure hunter who took a trip into the Nile for three days.

Eckhart barks out an order, and after a series of confused looks, his men disperse with grateful mumbles.

“Dean?” Sam sneaks up behind him, looking exhausted and sick. “What’s going on?”

“We’re taking a break.” Eckhart answers for him. “There is peace before every great battle. My men need to recover, rest for today.” And without another word, he gestures with his head for Victor to follow him.

Dean watches them go, taking the road on the left of the central garden monument. He sags when they are way out of sight, and the strength to keep up his bravado fails him at long last. He’s tired, his body aches, and his knees still seize up every once in a while.

Turning to Sam and Castiel, both of which look like crap, he lets go of a tired chuckle. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m ready to hit the hay for a few weeks.”

Unlike Sam, who rolls his eyes and slinks away in the opposite direction of the Germans, Castiel gifts him with a jaded smile. “Let’s go find the Pharaoh’s Suite.”

❖

Dean blacks out the moment he rests his head on a pillow, and Castiel isn’t that far behind.

Sam snorts at the two heaps of sheets on opposite sides of the room. Never mind that it’s still sunup, and the light seeps into the room at the far back through the door, but the rectangle of light doesn’t reach either of their beds. It does shine a light on Sam’s, which is why he would rather wait until the sun moves across the sky to call it a night. _A day, whatever._

With a fierce yawn he can feel tugging at his eyes, Sam steps outside for a while longer. His inner explorer beckons him to poke and prod; to assuage that sense of curious wonder.

The City of Amun-Ra is both unbelievable and unknowable to man, even while walking across its luscious gardens. Nothing Sam has heard of throughout his career can really compare. It may not be made of gold, although he is certain several carvings are decorated with it, its stone and brick walls shine with a light of their own. Ancient and majestic, Sam can’t begin to wonder the prestige such a discovery will attribute to his title.

The branch of road Dean chose (and navigated like he’d been here before) lead them to a small building that is ornately decorated with ivory, onyx, and gold. It’s similar to the brothel back in Cairo, only the drapes here are made of luxurious satin.

Two stone hawks guard the entrance of their lodge.

Inside, the building is divided into five rooms. In one of the rooms are three beds. Sam had expected for Dean to move the beds into the other empty rooms for the sake of privacy, but fatigue won over and rendered him unconscious until further notice. Sam doesn’t really mind. He’s just happy at the thought of being able to sleep on a mattress and pillow stuffed with Egyptian feathers, instead of a slab of rock, as he had been expecting.

Dean and Castiel’s snores fade into the background when Sam heads out onto the grassy road, the cool blades of grass feeling blessedly good against his bare, hot feet.

Sam walks.

All of the other cubic residences are closed and lifeless, their windows shut as if they’ve been long abandoned. Sand covers the entrances and red paint is streaked above the wooden beam. It’s almost as if the three of them had been meant to take the one they did, with its welcoming scent of homeliness.

House after house, they line the street on either side. A palm tree stands in front of every other lawn. The place is eerie, empty, and Sam vaguely wonders if he’ll be able to sleep after all.

Beneath a canopy of flowers is a wooden bench that’s miraculously intact after so many centuries. The gardens that breathe and expand all around him sway in a tranquil rhythm that forces him to sit down, his tiredness finally getting the best of him.

His mind is in turmoil, and his heart is confused about whether it should feel heavy with dread or light with relief. The things Sam saw during the transition, or the crossing, are inexplicable and far too infinite to innumerate, not to mention impossible to remember. There had been truth and lies; there had been the universe. Beneath Sam’s feet had been the surface of the moon, and in his hands the sticky warmth of honey.

Dean had moved through the light like it was his to wield. He looked at home, but he also didn’t look like himself. Of all that Sam fears as a repercussion of this expedition, is that Dean comes out changed. He has little to no idea what he’d be able to do with himself if the man that walks by his side is no longer his brother.

The crossing had done its fair share of whispery change in his being. Sam had felt his mother’s touch on his cheek, her lips on his temple. He had smelled Jessica’s hair. Sam had sunk into the feeling of unstoppable success. Glory; Sam had tasted it on his tongue, and it had scared him half to death.

His soul feels like it’s carrying lead.

“After a trip like that, even the cruelest of us are doing some soul-searching,” Bela says, coming into view after rounding a marble column. Her long hair is done up in a bun, and underneath her left arm she carries a satchel. “Not that you’d ever hurt a fly.”

Sam tenses, but makes no further movement. His eyes are heavy, and no doubt his movements would be sluggish if he tries to put up a fight. Instead, he scoots over on the bench.

With an appreciative nod, Bela sits beside him and hands him the satchel.

“What’s in it?”

“Lunch.” Sighing, she crosses one leg over the other, bending it over the knee. “Doesn’t seem like much, but it should be enough for the three of you.”

Sam’s snort is derisive. “If it’s Eckhart’s hospitality, we’re not interested.” He hands her the deerskin satchel back, but drops it onto his lap when he sees the frown on her face.

“Courtesy of me, you lug nut. We’re in the city. Do you think Eckhart gives a damn about your basic human needs?” Bela chuckles, and tucks a stray, dark blonde lock that’s come loose from the bun behind her ear. “All that matters to him now is Mr. Blue Eyes.”

“I figured.” Sam opens the satchel, and between a bundle of bread and jars of jelly, he spots a chocolate bar that is probably worth a small fortune in the other world’s economy. He should fear poisoning, but Dean’s promise of no harm coming to them rings true in his ears.

Bela stays at his side, calmly taking in her surroundings while he prepares himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The bread is hard, but he couldn’t care less, and makes one for Dean as well. Sam doesn’t know if Castiel would like one, so he leaves the third bread roll untouched.

“The company is roasting a pig tonight,” she says, humming when Sam takes his first bite. “If any of you manages to sneak between huts unnoticed, I’ll reward you with dinner and a bottle of wine.”

Sam’s mouth waters around the bread in his mouth. He’s known hunger back in the day, when all he and Dean had had was a can of soup for the two of them. He shouldn’t belittle the piece of bread in his hand for the pig that he may never see. There’s also the question on how edible said pig would be, considering they must have dragged it in from the previous world.

Looking down at his jelly-coated fingers, Sam asks, “Why are you doing this?”

Bela’s smile is flirtatious, but the black circles beneath her eyes dampen the effect. She’s just as tired as the rest of them. “What if I say that, even if all evidence points in the opposite direction…I’m actually human?”

The corner of Sam’s lips twitch at that. “Then why throw in your lot with them?”

She folds her arms in front of her stomach, her expression somber yet resolute. Sam doesn’t know what it is exactly, but there’s something in her eyes, in the shape her mouth takes, that speaks of fierceness and courage.

“The world’s an ugly place, Sam. We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of.”

“You’re a Nazi.”

“You are prideful.”

Sam scoffs. “You can’t really compare one thing to another.”

“Why not? A sin’s a sin. There’s no bigger or smaller; it’s all relative depending on our views and morals.” Her voice is calm, only a hint of a lilt underlying them with humor. “We all have our reasons to do what we do. And then at night we pray for redemption. If you believe in God, that is.”

Sucking his fingers clean, Sam feels an uncomfortable lump of bread lodged in his throat. He shifts on the bench, and slips the jars back into the satchel. “I know it’s probably personal but…” He looks away when her silver blue eyes turn to him. “What’s your reason?”

“You’re probably thinking that it better be a good one if I’m in this mess,” she says, and stands up. “Since you’re nice, I’ll tell you.”

The smile Bela wears is small and sad. It makes her features look fragile under the morning sun, and she makes herself look smaller by wrapping her arms around her midriff. Sam can already hear her wretched words before she speaks them; a forlorn melody that narrates a tortured past.

“By the end of this damn journey, all I want to do is sleep in silks, rolling naked in money.”

Sam can feel his face morph into half a dozen expressions in a matter of seconds. He settles for deadpan, despite the warmth in his cheeks. He should have seen that coming.

Bela’s laughter chimes as she walks away, waving a hand above her head. “Be sure to send your brother tonight. I’ll save you three some pig.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam slings the satchel’s strap over his head, and sees that it’s in a much better condition than the one he’d made out of scraps last night.

The sun has moved across the sky far quicker than Sam had expected, and there’s relief in the thought that he may be able to get to bed without worrying about being blinded while he sleeps. The sun is far too bright here, but what else could be expected of the city dedicated to a sun god?

Sam leaves the bench shortly after, looking for one of the springs he had spotted along the way to their lodgings. He finds it quickly, by a statue of Isis, and the water is cold enough to make him recoil in surprise once he touches it. It is pure bliss as he places his cupped hands to his lips, and the water refreshes his parched mouth. He regrets that he doesn’t have his canteen with him.

He doesn’t mind the coolness as the water soaks his chin, neck, and the upper part of his chest. Sam longs for the baths back at the brothel. It feels like ages ago since he had slept in a comfortable bed, had the most excellent curry and felt safe shutting his eyes for hours on end. He thinks about Portia and Charlie, and by extension he thinks about Balthazar and Aaron.

The journey has been long and excruciatingly difficult, but Sam can’t recall a trip in which he’s met such a variety of people. He won’t be forgetting about them anytime soon.

On his trek back to the house, Sam slows his stride when something darts out of the corner of his eye. It’s slow moving, but regardless of that, the shadow is gone by the time he looks in its direction.

He comes to a full stop.

The area is devoid of structures, consisting only of rolling flat gardens and the occasional pond. There is nothing to cast a shadow, and Sam’s skin breaks into gooseflesh.

He walks in the direction of the shadow until he reaches the corner of the main temple, but sees nothing there. In the distance, the city’s walls cast darkness where sand meets grass, but nothing vaguely humanoid roams about. Outside the walls there’s nothing but dune after towering dune of sand where Luxor should be.

It’s viscerally wrong.

And then there it is again, just a flash to his right, a smoky sort of darkness that walks on limbs. Excruciatingly tall, but once Sam turns, it’s no longer there.

“Hello?” he says, wiping his hands against his pants when they begin to sweat. “Anyone there?”

Sam takes the corner.

He finds himself at the entrance of the square temple, where the hanging greenery fills the air with the sweet aroma of perfume. The flowers are all closed, but they’re still alive. Almost as if they’re hiding, Sam thinks to himself, before immediately standing back when he notices it.

When they had entered the city, in front of the temple there had been a pedestal. Sam remembers it clearly, because the onyx statue of Anubis is not something one easily forgets; especially when it towers well over forty feet over one’s head.

Now, the pedestal is there, but the statue is not.

Sam’s mind conjures a dozen images of Anubis walking the green oasis of Amun-Ra, and his stomach twists so painfully he could return his sandwich right then.

A magnetic force pulls Sam towards the temple however, and Sam tries reminding himself of Dean’s words. No harm will come to them here, and therefore there’s nothing to be afraid of. But despite the calming words his big brother repeated over and over again, Sam still fears.

Nevertheless, fear is incompetent, for Sam is already standing at the temple’s entrance, his hands gripping the stone frame of a door.

Fear gives way to curiosity, and curiosity paves the way to awe, because within the stone and brick walls of a long-dormant temple, there are riches to rival the treasures of the world.

Sam stumbles inside, fatigue and drowsiness forgotten as he skids along golden floors, and gem encrusted sarcophagi. The find becomes bigger, the monetary value too great to decipher just yet, and Sam goes from thinking they’re set for life, to thinking that his children’s grandchildren will be enjoying this blessing decades from now.

Hieroglyphs decorate the walls, some painted in rich tones of blue and red. Hawks, jackals, lions, ibises, lotus flowers… There are temples and cities, maps, books – all of them encoded into the walls untouched by time.

The back of Sam’s eyes sting with unshed tears, with unbridled joy and rapture.

He stops for a moment, uncertain when he sees Dean standing in front of an endless corridor. It truly is endless, for the closer Sam gets to him, the longer it seems until it eventually fades into darkness. There’s more gold, more gems, more jars of ivory and gold. The value of the temple is immeasurable.

❖

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean says before Sam could ask. He’s restless. Static reverberates underneath his skin, keeping him awake. His body still aches, but it’s only dull sensations in his joints.

Sam comes to stand beside him, looking down the endless corridor. His kid-like eyes are wide and dewy, and Dean can’t help the smile that forms. He hasn’t seen that look on Sam’s face since the last time Dean had brought him a book when they were kids, or around the time Sam met Jessica. Everyone lives for these brief moments, tiny milestones in an otherwise long and sometimes purposeless life.

Dean lets him have the moment.

“The statue at the entrance is missing,” Sam says, after a moment of silence spent admiring the void. “You haven’t seen any humanoid jackals walking around here, have you?”

Dean shuffles his feet, but doesn’t give him an answer. It’s better not to talk about the things that walk in the dark, or in this case, the light. Sam needs his rest, and haunting him with tales of demons doesn’t seem like a wise thing to do.

“You should go sleep, Sammy.”

Frowning, Sam turns to look at his brother. “I was going to, but then—”

“We have nineteen hours before we get to walk down this thing,” Dean explains, angling his chin to gesture the endless corridor. “It’s gonna be a hell of a long walk.” His heels are already dreading it.

“Is it safe?”

Dean blinks, returns Sam’s stare. “That’s new.”

Grimacing, Sam shrugs. “Doesn’t smell like anything,” he says, holding out a hand. “Can’t really feel anything either. It’s strange. Like it isn’t really there.”

Dean squints, and flexes his fingers in anticipation. Sweet little Sammy, always so smart. “That’s because it isn’t. Step into it now and it’ll go on eternally.”

Sam is quiet for a long time, worrying his bottom lip. “This is where Cas comes in.”

“Figured it out, huh?”

“Everything comes in threes.”

Dean nods his head, lifting his arms to cross them in front of his chest. His head is throbbing, most likely a migraine caused by over-thinking and exhaustion. “Only the first part. Cas is the conduit but he’s also a key like the two of us.”

Sam makes a face that shows he thinks this reeks of suspicion. “You never said if it was safe or not.”

The accusation makes Dean grit his teeth. The one thing he wants out of the entire ordeal is the only thing he can’t have. Ma’at promised him safety within the city, but on the other side of the corridor lies nothing but uncertainty and death. “You heard what I told Eckhart. That goes for all of us.”

“Then we’re all gonna die,” Sam says, but his tone is droll. “Kind of fitting, once you think about it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, shuffles his feet again. He needs to run. “And you’re okay with this?”

“Yeah, sure? I mean, distant land, other realm, buried among riches and mummified remains – it’s every archaeologist’s dream.”

“That’s real funny, Sam.” At Sam’s shrug, Dean fumes. “What about Jess? What about your future? Don’t tell me you’re okay to just kick the bucket in here.”

“Dean—”

“I can get you back.”

They both go quiet, staring in opposite directions.

Dean’s heart aches, the edges of disappointment coming undone within him. He can almost hear John’s voice whispering harshly into his ear.

“I can get you back, Sam.”

Sam huffs like a bull, and Dean knows that he’s angry. “Then get us back. All of us. Screw the mission, screw everything. If we can get out of here safe, then—”

“You’ve done your part.”

“And so have you, Dean.”

“I can’t, okay? I can’t stand aside and let those assholes win.”

“This isn’t your war.”

“Yes, it is!” Dean shouts, scathing. His jaw aches from clenching, hands moving along his side, suddenly unsure of where to put them. “I bailed. I ran away when I should have been fighting. Kids are dying, Sam. Kids are standing in the frontlines because I was too much of a wuss.”

“This isn’t your fault! How can that _possibly_ be your fault? People are gonna die, whether or not you pick up a gun.”

Running a hand over his mouth, Dean shakes his head. “You should have seen Dad’s face when I said I wasn’t enlisting.”

“Dad didn’t enlist either. Why should you?”

“Because Dad has a role to play. You have a role to play, still, Sam. People…people need you, in school, in—in society and stuff. You know, morale building. Pillars of the community.” Dean hisses out a harsh breath. “People like you shouldn’t be waddling in the mud. Shouldn’t be dead.”

Sam’s hands are clenched into fists by his side, and for a moment Dean flinches, thinking he’s going to get punched.

“You’re important. You matter, you _asshole_ ,” Sam grits out, shoving Dean’s shoulders and making him stumble back. “I wouldn’t be me without you, Dean. We wouldn’t be here without you, and you know what? Maybe we aren’t in the frontlines but we’re here, taking on this battle headfirst. And we’re going to fight it together. Me, you, and Cas.”

“Sam…” Heaven knows that he’s tired, in every possible way.

“You have a future, and don’t pretend like you don’t. I see it. Hell, we all see it. You’re not alone, you’re not worthless, you’re not scum—” Sam’s words raise in volume as he carries on, “you’re…you’re…dammit, you’re a _Winchester_.”

By the time the tirade is over, Dean is slumped over, hands on his knees, trying really hard not to laugh, but his shoulders are already quaking. He really doesn’t want to cheapen the moment, but then he hears Sam’s choked sniggering, and barks out a laugh.

A floodgate of hysterics opens then, sending both brothers into a fit of giggles and guffaws that has them both clutching at their sides. Sam has to lean against a pillar, tears streaming down his cheeks and having to look away from Dean to keep himself from laughing any louder.

Dean rests his head against a wall, stomping his foot as he scrambles for anything to calm him down. His chest and lungs begin to hurt, but the rest of his bodily aches disappear in the bout of uncontrollable laughter.

“I’m a _Winchester?_ ” Dean chokes out, before chortling around the fist he’s pressing to his mouth. “Really? Is that all you got, Mr. Harvard Erudite?”

They laugh on until eventually their madness dies down to manageable hiccups and the sporadic titters. Sam now leans against Dean’s side, arm slung over his shoulder, giant that he is.

Dean feels light on his feet despite the fatigue, and the outburst has helped calm down his nerves. He feels okay, even with the calamity that dangles over his head. He’s at peace.

“Bela brought us this,” Sam says, like he’s suddenly remembered himself.

Dean hums, and nearly collapses at the sight of food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he is until Sam waved a jar of peanut butter inches from his face. “What’s the catch?”

Sam gives him an already prepared sandwich, and Dean sends a blessing towards whatever god is listening. “Guess she felt sorry for us.”

“I feel sorry for us, too,” Dean says, or at least, he hopes that’s what it sounds like around a mouthful of glorious peanut butter and jelly. Swallowing a mouthful, he says “I also would have liked a steak.”

“If you’re feeling up to it, she said she’ll smuggle us some roasted pig tonight.”

Dean hums, swiping a finger along the bottom of the bread roll to prevent a glob of jelly from falling to the ground. “You do know she probably wants something in return, right?”

“Nothing’s ever free,” Sam says, as if reciting from an old book. “Still, an hour ago we didn’t have food in our stomachs.”

Finishing up, Dean points to the satchel. “Anything more?”

“Last one’s for Cas.”

Dean grumbles, but nods.

“You’re gonna stay here long?” Sam says, pointedly looking towards the exit. “Sun’s moving, and I’d like to catch some sleep.”

Thirsty now, Dean shakes his head. “I’m gonna poke around, see if I can find any loopholes that won’t get us fricasseed by the end of tomorrow.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but Sam is frowning again, more tired than anything, but it’s still a frown. “I’ll be fine, Sam.”

Sam lingers for a few more moments before nodding and heading towards the exit. “The springs are safe to drink. Water’s surprisingly cold.”

Dean lifts his hand and salutes, and with a scoff, Sam steps outside.

The temple dips into silence, like a flame blown out, dropping the room into darkness. Laughter still echoes in Dean’s mind, and it’s the only comfort the void of despair that is this temple offers. The stench of death is strong, acrid, and Dean can feel the joy seeping out of him like pus from an infected wound.

The corridor before him is not very different from the corridor he ran through a matter of days – or was it centuries – ago.

Too tired to stand any longer, Dean considers following Sam into their hut, but he’s far past the point of being able to move.

Rather than walking, Dean rests his back against a column and slides to the floor. The stone is cool through his clothes, and at least he’s far away from the punishing sun. He makes sure to keep his eyes on the corridor, to stare upon the roving shadows at the very depths, and not fall asleep. He fears that they will drag him inside if he does.

Maybe it would be easier if they did, but… _You matter._

Dean snorts at Sam’s impromptu speech.

He can somehow see what Sam means by fighting to the end, even while Dean would rather fight alone, without risking Sam’s wellbeing. A future; _that_ escapes Dean. What future is there for a guard dog? They just get put down when they’ve grown old and weary and can no longer do their job. But hell, Dean’s not even a guard dog; he’s a rabid mutt trying to moonlight as one.

Dean is just an outlaw, a rascal who pretends to be someone with a respectful job. His place is in the birdcage, bearing stripes and gambling for cigarettes. He doesn’t have nifty diplomas, or a fine lady friend to come home to.

But he did fix his automobile all by himself, and created a system to play films at home. He did manage to finish that crossword puzzle once, but he’s sure Sam had filled out some words while Dean was in the bathroom. Dean connected the puzzle pieces, Dean found Coptos and weathered the pits of Hell with nothing but the clothes on his back.

So maybe he isn’t worthless, even if he doesn’t have the means to start a family and achieve the American Dream. He has Sammy, and Jess, both of which are swell folks and love everything that simply exists. Sammy, who would probably hug Eckhart and forgive his transgressions against the human race; Jessica, who would storm in her heels and whip every other scoundrel into place with a few choice words, all the while tending to the neighbor’s kid’s scraped knee. It’s only obvious that they would love Dean.

Darkness creeps along Dean’s vision, and as much as he fights it, he falls asleep.

❖

It’s early afternoon when Castiel finds him, slumped on the floor in a very uncomfortable-looking position, with his forehead drenched in sweat. His eyebrows are knitted tightly together, his expression unpleasant.

Dean snores, rather loudly as well, so Castiel avoids disturbing him. Instead, he makes a quick run back to their hut.

Careful not to wake Sam, he grabs a pillow, a sheet, and a canteen. Sam had told him about the spring with the cold water while Castiel ate his sandwich, so he stops by to get a drink, and to fill up his canteen.

Once back in the temple, Castiel gently rearranges Dean onto the pillow. The floor may be cold, but Dean is burning up with a fever, so he refrains from tucking him in. Ripping off a piece of the sheet, Castiel wets it with the water, and places it over Dean’s forehead.

Scooting back, Castiel sits on the floor, taking the spot Dean previously occupied. He yawns, still tired even after sleeping for a few hours.

Sam hadn’t said much when Castiel had woken up, only that he’d brought him something to eat courtesy of Bela, before falling into bed and snoring the moment his head touched the pillow. The day feels surreal, time passing slowly, but the clock is still ticking. Castiel’s role is fast approaching, but he doesn’t know what exactly it is. Although, he’s sure Dean does know.

The corridor in front of him stretches on for miles and miles, and Castiel has to look away, bothered by its fathomless depth. Dean had been sitting here, staring into the abyss, and Castiel is left to wonder if it’s because of that vacuum that has been ripped open within Dean’s mind.

“What do you see?” Castiel whispers, looking over Dean’s fitful sleep. He places a hand over Dean’s ankle, and softly squeezes it.

Resigned to the quiet, Castiel shuts his eyes, and begins to hum.

❖

Dean treads between asleep and awake; soft musical notes bringing him above a cloud of darkness, but exhaustion pulls him back under. He swings back and forth, from imageless nightmares to soothing sunlight, but his eyelids push shut. Sleep is better, revitalizing, it will stall everything a little bit longer.

The sound of a crash makes Dean blink his eyes open, then shut, and then open again, focusing them on the dark ceiling of the temple. Dust motes swirl overhead, catching light and dancing as makeshift fairies. Beautiful, until they cause Dean to sneeze.

Whatever is causing the shuffling noise stops, and Dean pushes himself up onto his elbows, rubbing his at his gritty eyes. His back is killing him, his coccyx hurts where it grinds against the stone floor, and he feels ill. He’s shivering in the heat, and his skin feels clammy.

“You’re finally awake,” Castiel says, and Dean lays back down in relief.

He watches Castiel move around, grab the canteen and place it down beside his head. Dean only just notices that his head is cushioned, and he figures Castiel must have moved him. A blessing, because he doesn’t want to think about the stiff muscles sleeping against a column would have produced.

“You have a fever,” he continues. Uncapping the canteen, he hands it over to Dean. “Here.”

Not wanting to sit up just yet, Dean holds it over his chest. “How long have I been out?”

Castiel looks in the direction of the exit, and squints. “Four, five hours, maybe. It’s almost sunset.”

Unable to mourn to the loss of what were perhaps his last hours, Dean sits up with a groan. He’s rested, even if drowsiness makes his movements sluggish. Pushing the canteen’s strap aside, he takes a swig, washing down the foul taste in his mouth. Even his throat feels scratchy, and he worries that he may have caught a bug. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Dean drinks like a man stranded in the desert, _like what he is_ , and is left gasping for air when he returns the canteen to Castiel. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The inside of the temple is slowly darkening, disorienting Dean enough that it’s difficult to tell what was yesterday and what is today. Time and space displacement—or it could be the fever causing him to hallucinate the sudden wave of fear.

Blackness wraps wicked tendrils around his legs, rendering him incapable to move. The air grows thick, heavy, causing his ears to pop and filling them with maddening buzzing meant to disturb. It’s cold all over. He trembles on the floor, arms wrapped around himself.

Dean is facing an abysmal void, heaving, sentient, and it’s sucking him in. There is no air, no hope, nothing.

There is nothing.

Mind over matter, Dean reaches out for Castiel, blindly grabbing the front of his shirt. He tries to say something, anything, but bless Castiel’s soul for understanding his inability to speak right now.

Wordlessly, Castiel pulls him into a protective embrace.

Dean holds on to reality by a string, desperately trying to use Castiel’s arms as an anchor. Here he can be weak, if only for a little while. Castiel won’t judge him for it.

His brain feels like it is burning, his shoulder and jaw ache, his chest spasms and constricts and it feels like the beginning of a heart attack. Dean can’t help the whimper, or the shaking.

When the episode subsides, Dean shivers, and doesn’t mention the wet patch that now stains the front of Castiel’s shirt. Neither of them do. Time slinks by, unmarked and terrible.

“Perhaps it will do you some good to take a walk,” Castiel says. His voice is a soothing whisper in Dean’s ear. “Stretch your legs, and get out in the open.”

Dean hums in agreement, but doesn’t move yet. He’s past the point of decorum, and so he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s nuzzling Castiel’s chest. He smells of fresh water and early blooms, but he also carries a hint of earthy musk that thrills Dean to the point of leaning upward, and pressing a kiss to the sweaty column of his neck.

Castiel huffs out a chuckle, hooks his fingers underneath Dean’s jaw and angles his face upward. Holding his eyes, Castiel presses a short kiss to his mouth. “Feeling better?”

Dean nods, shutting his eyes. He feels peace, calm settling deep into his bones. “Bela promised us some pig.”

“Are you hungry?” The last word comes out as a soft growl, and Dean gasps when Castiel lightly scrapes his teeth against Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m always hungry,” he tries to joke, but his words quiver with arousal. “Fuck.”

Castiel kisses him again, this time hard and deep, drawing Dean’s tongue into his mouth to suck on it. Dean holds the side of Castiel’s face, pulling him closer, carding his fingers through dark hair that feels feathery soft.

A different sort of madness takes over, and Dean is ready to surrender to it. He’s ready to claim, to give, to take, to pant into Castiel’s mouth.

Hot and wet, Dean pushes their mouths closer together, allowing no room for breath or spit to escape. Dean only pulls away, biting his lower lip, when Castiel cups his stirring erection without preamble.

Time speeds up again, everything melting away into hues of gold and red. Castiel touches him without restraint, his fingers confident and experienced as they knead Dean’s skin, teasing and soothing.

Dean gives up control, too tired after the unexpected breakdown to move much. Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t mind.

He’s maneuvered to sit between Castiel’s legs, and Dean grins. The position amuses him, even if it will make it hard for them to kiss. Dean does Castiel the favor of undoing his fly, but he seems preoccupied with something else.

Castiel mouth and hands move in tandem along the expanse of Dean’s body, bunching up the dirty shirt, too much in a hurry to properly unbutton it.

His touch is warm as it slides over tired muscles and sore ribs, and Dean melts under the blissful attention. Thumbs flick at his nipples, but only briefly before open palms slowly caress in a slow, downward swipe. Fingers tug playfully at the trail of hair under Dean’s navel, causing a laugh to bubble in his chest.

Meanwhile, Castiel’s lips are pressing to the space behind his ear. Stubble tickles the sensitive skin there, making Dean squirm, but Castiel holds fast. He mouths at Dean’s earlobe, hot breath puffing, muted groans sounding wrecked as he cants his hips underneath him.

Castiel kisses his neck, sucks a bruise just above Dean’s shoulder, before pulling out a hand from under Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s hands fist Castiel’s pants over his thighs when his hand wraps around Dean’s neck, gently caressing it. A surge of pleasure lights Dean’s gut, causing him to moan, and Castiel kisses him in the awkward position with fierce determination.

“Cas…”

Castiel shushes him with a hand down his pants.

Stars have never looked brighter or more colorful behind Dean’s closed eyes.

Dean’s back arches, thighs quivering and toes curling inside his boots. He moves to the rhythm of Castiel’s hand, each gentle stroke and wicked twist, and his heels helplessly slide across the temple floor as he tries to rein himself in. Useless, because Castiel is moving the hand angling his neck to hold onto Dean’s chest, keeping him in place.

“Please, Cas… I…” His words give way to an unbidden groan when Castiel concedes the unspoken request.

He’s too wound up, Castiel poking and twisting the right gears since the moment he first walked into that library in Munich. Castiel is a force of nature, relentless and powerful. Solid as stone, and able to weather any tempest that lashes his way.

Castiel is a force to be reckoned with, and he’s also everything Dean needs.

A particularly well-performed twist has Dean climaxing with a tight groan, body strung tight and stiff around the cocoon of Castiel’s arms and legs. Too long; it has been too long since Dean has even sniffed satisfaction like the kind that’s currently weighing down in his bones. It’s delight, ecstasy in its purest form.

“Fuck, Cas… _fuck_.”

Castiel chuckles, mouth still moving against the grain of Dean’s stubble. “How coherent of you.” The son of a bitch nuzzles the side of Dean’s face, and Dean struggles with the overpowering urge to kiss him senseless.

The best of it all is that Castiel doesn’t let go. He holds Dean safely against his chest, rubbing his nose and pressing his mouth to whatever bit of clothed and unclothed skin he can reach.

“I wish I could coddle you,” Castiel says, continuing his loving strokes. “Hold your hand, maybe. Drink coffee in front of a fireplace, sharing a blanket, a hundred miles away from war and pain.” His breathing hitches, his hold tightens. He’s quiet for a long moment, and Dean holds his breath. “I want to _be_ with you.”

Dean closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Castiel’s cheek. “Sap,” he says, but his words are soft.

“You love it.”

And it’s the goddamned truth. “Hell, yeah, I do. I could be here all day.” Castiel hums, but Dean shakes his head. “I’m serious, Cas. I’d be happy to sit here and adore the fuck out of ya’.” He doesn’t open his eyes, because a whole new wave of pain manifests in his chest.

Desperate words of desperate men looking down the barrel of a shotgun.

Doesn’t make them any less true, however. Castiel is a freaking heaven-sent miracle, and Dean isn’t stupid enough to let him walk away. Here and now, Dean doesn’t even have to ask if Castiel is with him, if he’s willing to walk into the belly of the beast by his side, because he knows he’ll say yes. Castiel Milton will look him dead in the eye and explicitly agree to take on the gods themselves.

“I need you,” Dean says. Those aren’t the words he had meant to say, but it’s as close as they are ever going to get. “Christ, I… I need you, man.”

Castiel kisses him, gentle and deep, and nods as he pulls away. “Until the end,” he says, assuaging all of Dean’s unspoken doubts.

❖

By night, Amun-Ra is a city built of dreams.

The gardens come alive with hundreds of twinkling fireflies, the waterfalls and springs gleaming with glitter that has no source. Firelight from torches lines the temples’ outer walls, basking the night in shades of orange and pale red. The statues are dormant. The breeze is cool, and not the harsh kind of cold from the actual desert.

Not an insect buzzes. Not a cloud eclipses the vastly rolling sky above, sprinkled with stars that change from blue, to white, to pink, and then white once more.

Nighttime sunlight, Castiel likes to think of it.

Serenity silences Castiel’s fears of the morning to come. There’s still time to enjoy the little pleasures he has at his disposal: the cold grass beneath his feet, the gentle warmth of Dean’s palm against his own. The squeeze of his fingers, the caress of his thumb, the adoring look in his green eyes.

They walk quietly through the exterior gardens where it’s more grass than actual trees and bushes. The grass reaches well past their hips, but they’ve long given up trying to be careful not to trip over stray stones. There’s nothing but smooth earth under the soles of their feet, and it adds to the detached feeling of floating across the field.

Dean will occasionally stop, grip the hair on the back of Castiel’s neck, and kiss him. Seven times exactly, he’s done this, and it’s a surprise every single time. A light press of lips, chaste and tender, and Castiel can feel his heart do happy flips in his chest.

From the distance, the sound of music drifts in the wind. A guitar, or maybe two, a violin, and the smoothest voice Castiel has ever heard. Two voices now, a man and a woman, singing along to a slow and soulful ballad, with high notes make goosebumps erupt along Castiel’s arms.

He pulls Dean in the direction of the music; close enough to the camp to listen, but not enough to be seen in the dark.

The song sounds western, despite the words being in German. It’s a refreshing change from the war songs that have been popular for the last couple of years, and Castiel can’t keep himself from swaying to the sensual beat.

“What’s it say?” Dean asks, looking at Castiel through narrowed eyes.

Castiel answers him with a smile, and his available hand to Dean’s lower back.

“Whoa, hold up there, champ. I don’t dance.” He doesn’t pull away from Castiel’s hold.

“Last night on Earth, Dean. You wouldn’t want to look back in the afterlife and regret not having danced at least once in your life.”

Reluctant, Dean frowns down at Castiel, but he’s already in position. Chest to chest, hands clasped, and Dean’s free hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Smartass.”

Castiel chuckles. “No one is watching us.”

Dean wrinkles his nose, looking indignant. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Be quiet, Dean.”

Ignoring the harrumph he gets, Castiel guides the two of them in a slow circle. Dean eventually eases into a sardonic smile Castiel doesn’t take seriously. Adamant to make the dance as smooth as possible, Castiel steps closer, and it’s only when Dean looks down, eyes fixed on the buttons of Castiel’s shirt that Castiel pulls them flush together.

He gives Dean a warm smile he hopes conveys contentment, but Dean is frowning again. “What is it?”

“You’re going too slow,” Dean says, shrugging awkwardly.

“All right,” Castiel says, and slows to a stop. “You lead.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches, but he stows whatever protest he was about to make. Clearing his throat, and squaring his shoulders, Dean gives his head a tiny nod, to which Castiel answers with a slight bow.

They take off, starting with a slow to-and-fro motion fast enough to keep up with the smooth tempo of the song. Castiel is mildly surprised when Dean proves to be able to keep to the rhythm, spinning him in a slow circle when the time is right.

Dean holds him tight, chest against chest, the tips of their shoes brushing occasionally. Their foreheads meet, noses bumping as they sway to the distant sound of the guitars.

Castiel refrains from closing his eyes, even though he wants to. While losing himself to the soothing dance, the safety and comfort of Dean’s arms is what he desires most, all the while looking into Dean’s shimmering eyes.

The intimacy between them becomes tangible, simmering hot in Castiel’s stomach. Unresolved arousal begins to stir at the sight of Dean’s parted lips, his tongue darting out to wet them. They move together, a slow burn that slowly consumes them both.

Castiel moves both of his hands to drape them above Dean’s shoulders, fingertips touching Dean’s hair. Dean places his own hands around Castiel, touching his back and shielding him from the outside world.

They breathe each other’s air, open mouths brushing in not-quite kisses as their feet continue to drag in tandem. Castiel does find he loses himself in the presence of Dean, singing along in hushed whispers to the whimsical song. A part of him desperately wishes for Dean to understand the words, but the smile that shines in those green eyes tells Castiel that he _does_. Whatever power, whatever miracle – Dean understands the cosmic declaration of love and soul-deep devotion Castiel is dedicating to him; the foreign language presents no barrier.

Castiel’s hands slide from the back of Dean’s head to caress his face, touching the stubbled cheeks he desires to feel tickling the inside of his thighs. Thumbs slide over spit-slicked lips, and he can’t stop himself from leaning in and kissing them.

The floor drops away from under his feet, but it’s only Dean who is slowly guiding them both onto the ground.

“Again?” Castiel asks with a chuckle, tipping his head back when Dean mouths at his neck.

“Time to return the favor.” Dean grins against his neck, and Castiel can feel the perfect set of teeth on heated skin.

Castiel props himself up on his elbows, looks down at Dean who is lying between his legs, mouth sucking at his collarbone. The tall grass offers them privacy out in the open, but they’ll have to be quiet. The challenge riles Castiel up, causing him to bite his own lip with exciting pleasure.

Dean is aware of this too, and places a finger in front of his own lips to silence him. Castiel nods as he watches him slide lower down his body, kissing both fabric and skin as he goes.

Head tipped back, Castiel counts the stars, both real and unreal when Dean’s mouth latches onto his clothed crotch, gently massaging. Castiel groans, knocking his knees further apart, granting Dean more space for him to move freely.

His breath quickens, stomach doing pleasant flips when Dean’s fingers deftly undo his button and zipper, tugging it down with little effort. Ankles dig into soft dirt the moment Dean blows over the moist spot on his underwear.

Castiel angles himself for better balance to be able to run his fingers through Dean’s hair, softly pulling on the pale tufts to urge him on.

Dean presses a kiss beside Castiel’s navel, and looks up at him. It’s a request for permission, and Castiel grants it with a weak nod.

The glorious heat that envelops him is pure, absolute bliss.

Nails dig into fresh dirt and soft hair; waves of ecstasy twisting Castiel’s stomach into knots of want and need. He pants, moans, mewls when Dean sucks him without granting him a second to breathe.

Castiel grunts, arches his back, and pushes his hips forward; anything for more of that ground-shaking suction, for the heat of Dean’s mouth.

He breaks with a whimper not long after, chest bursting with warmth, and legs trembling as Dean drinks him whole.

Castiel falls back, spent, with a quiet laugh that is breathy and shaky. His body glows with bone-deep satisfaction, fingers and toes tingling with happiness.

Dean comes into view above him, mouth slick and swollen as he smirks, and presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips. It’s dirty and obscene, but Castiel’s blood burns hot.

He wants to say something, anything that can express the endless bundle of gratitude he carries within him, but Castiel fears that no words will be able to demonstrate it the way it is. Instead, Castiel says “I love you, too,” because it’s the only thing he can possibly think of.

Dean blinks, and after a long moment of consideration, he nods. He says nothing, though, and snatches yet another kiss from Castiel’s mouth. Their fingers thread together, a tender tangle under the night sky and above a bed of grass. It’s more than Castiel ever dreamed of.

“How you feeling?” Dean eventually asks, cuddling Castiel’s neck.

Satisfied, elated, scared, sore, endless. “Happy,” he says instead.

Dean tries to form words, his mouth moving but nothing coming out, until he gives up. He lowers himself onto Castiel’s body, head over his chest, forehead to Castiel’s neck.

The music has long since ended, as well as the indistinct chatter of soldiers. Only the fire’s crackle interrupts the otherwise peaceful nighttime silence.

Castiel’s hand touches Dean’s back in smooth strokes, enjoying the nice weight and presence of him. He presses a kiss to the top of his head.

They stay for long moments, enjoying the company and the soothing touches in the nighttime breeze, but the cold eventually sets in. It’s when Dean begins to shiver that Castiel suggests they head back to their lodging.

Dean grumbles, and reluctantly gets up.

“We should rest,” Castiel says, trying to talk some sense into him. “The morning is going to be a long one.”

“Yeah, I guess.” His harsh bitterness dwindles when Castiel steals a kiss. “Or we could just, you know, enjoy the rest of the night.”

Castiel tucks himself back into his pants and zips up, half-grinning. “I prefer that idea much more.”

Dean leads him to the outskirts of the camp, hidden amongst the palm trees and statues. It’s only then that Castiel remembers why they had wandered out into the night in the first place, when he spots a basket nestled in a bed of grass.

“Huh. Guess she wasn’t pulling our leg,” Dean says, kneeling beside the basket and opening the flap.

Castiel takes a peek inside, and his stomach rumbles at the sight of food. A bottle or wine is placed beside it. The food should be cold by now, but Castiel doubts that will be a problem.

“Yahtzee.” Handing the bottle over to Castiel, Dean grabs the basket.

On their way back to the hut, in the dead of night, Dean takes Castiel’s hand and gives it a squeeze.

❖

The night drifts on in a haze of happiness eclipsed by unspoken weariness.

They tiptoe around each other until Sam stirs, and then they all eat, drink, and share the chocolate bar Bela had given Sam that afternoon.

They tell jokes, laugh when they each take turns in remembering the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to them. Sam chokes on a mouthful of wine, and Castiel laughs so hard he snorts like a hog, which in turn makes Dean laugh until he cries.

They fall into silence, just enjoying each others’ company in the stillness of waiting, until it becomes too much.

Sam excuses himself, says he’ll take a walk until the sun rises, and as he strides out the door with slumped shoulders, Dean and Castiel shut the door behind him.

The two of them make love one more time, this time without restraints, clothing, or walls between them. Naked and vulnerable, they cry out for each other, hold each other, kiss each other senseless until the first bursts of gold drifts in through the windows.

Castiel is standing by the window, covered in his sheet, when Dean comes up behind him. Wrapping his arms around the wide hips, Dean presses a kiss to his naked shoulder, where darkening teeth marks beckon for attention.

Castiel leans his head against the side of Dean’s, taking his hands and joining their fingers together.

It’s a poignant dawn, serene and gentle as it paints the city’s outskirts in hues of pink and gold.

They don’t speak.

Dean holds him, safe in his arms.

Castiel hums a song, and squeezes his fingers.

This is where he wants to be, for now and forever.

Dean has found his home, his sanctuary, and he doesn’t want to let it go.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean stands before the yawning opening of the hallway and waits for the rest of the company to prepare for their journey. What awaits them just beyond the threshold puts fear in his guts and sweat in his palms, but they have come too far to back out now. It’s time to take the first step into the final stretch of their journey, and he’s ready to face whatever cataclysm stands at the very end.

Armed with torches, canteens, guns, and plenty of ammunition, the soldiers stand at attention, listening to the barking of words meant to boost their morale. Eckhart marches in front of them, fist to his chest, passionately broadening on the importance this moment holds. This is their trench, he says, this is their battle.

He culminates the speech with a boisterous _Sieg Heil._

Sam stands to Dean’s right, looking uncomfortable at the display, but making himself look like a tolerant human being. To Dean’s left is Castiel, looking impassive, closed off to the potential chaos he’s about to face. Dean won’t waste his time asking how they’re holding up, because both his companions will simply nod and say they’re ready for anything. Neither will ask about the outcome of the mission.

Sam, however, mutters a prayer, and Dean is certain he hears Jessica’s name in the hushed words.

Eckhart joins them shortly after, head held high and defiant to the dangers down the hall. Victor stands behind him, too close to Castiel for Dean’s peace of mind. Bela is there as well, looking far too pale. “Lead the way, Herr Winchester.”

Dean takes a deep breath to still himself, to calm his nerves, and then nods with determination. No sense in hesitating. It’s far better to simply get things over with. Wordlessly, he crosses into the stone hallway.

The sunlight that fills the temple with hues of orange and gold seems muter here, just two steps in. Gray eats away at the plain walls, black bleeds through the cracks and holes in the ancient bricks. The transition is so quick that it causes Dean to falter in his step, putting him on high alert, searching for any kind of sound. He listens for the slither and the hiss, or the creak and the groan.

The company is quiet where it follows behind them, but their weariness is nearly tangible, and their agitated breaths call out in symphony, disturbing the deathly silence.

There isn’t a scarab in the rapidly growing darkness, not a statue in sight. There is no end, only the gaping black void as far as Dean’s eyes can see. His mind is eerily blank, quiet after the incessant whispers he’s been hearing since emerging from the river.

Dean’s fingers grip and release the gun holstered to his side; it’s useless, but it gives him an outlet. Tension coils beneath his skin where it stretches too thin in the presence of an all-consuming power. There’s something here, although no one may be able to see it.

Minutes stretch into hours, not all that different from Dean’s journey through that Hell.

They stop at one point, when the darkness becomes impenetrable, to light the torches. Sam and Castiel both take one.

One more hour and the erratic breathing has subsided. Hushed chuckles and murmurs whiff up from behind. Victor even begins to hum.

Sam and Castiel both send Dean the same look, one of doubt and confusion. Dean shakes his head. “Don’t let your guard down,” he says, feeling sour. This is exactly what the forces want, to catch them unaware. Let them walk for hours, days even, and when they’re too tired to react, too jaded to care, it’ll come in and exterminate the threat.

It’s only a matter of time.

The corridor goes on, unchanging.

What signifies the difference is an itch beneath Dean’s chin, one that refuses to go away no matter how much he scratches at it. Unnoticed, he too had slipped into an unthreatened state of mind, and the itch snaps him out of it, making him notice the hum behind his ears.

Subtle in the company’s chatter, it carries itself through an undercurrent, like white noise. So far, only he has noticed it, and he alerts Sam and Castiel of it by clearing his throat. Their reaction isn’t pronounced, just a twitch of the lip or an eyebrow, and Dean knows the both of them are paying close attention.

Eckhart, too, hears the sound Dean makes. He knows this much when they meet eyes, but Dean looks away, and says nothing.

The hum becomes a low rumble the rest still fail to recognize, but Dean and those beside him have quickened their stride.

The boom comes when they’ve broken into a run.

There’s no place to run to, Dean reminds himself, but they can’t stay behind. Running did him well the last time; maybe he can outrun it again.

The thundering of boots nearly overshadows the rumble, and the grinding of stone against stone. A crackle like electricity overpowers all of the sounds.

As far as Dean knows, neither Castiel nor Sam look back in their frantic escape. They all push on until they’re heaving, until Castiel’s step falters, and Dean is pulling him by the wrist. Still they run, through the dark corridor that falls pitch black after the sound of a resounding boom.

Dean turns around, bracing himself when Castiel’s speeding body collides with his. “Sammy!” he calls out. After a few horrifying seconds of silence, Sam answers.

“I’m here! I’m here.”

There’s nothing to see, but Dean feels Sam’s hand land on the back of his head, and then slip downward until he’s gripping his shoulder.

“Anyone else?” Dean asks, letting his hand drop when Castiel straightens away from him.

“Present,” Bela says, somewhere off to his right.

“As am I.”

“And me.”

Those two come from Eckhart and Victor respectively.

No one else answers.

“What on Earth just happened?” The question comes from Bela, but the final words are drowned out by the same sound of crackling electricity.

Deathly still, they all listen to the sound intensify, followed by bloodcurdling screams and sickening sound of crunching.

Bela gasps when the noise reaches its peak; the sound of someone scrambling against stone, a gurgled cry. A furious litany of German, followed by agonized wails and horrified screeching.

Dean feels Sam’s hand tighten over his shoulder, and Castiel is now clinging to his shirt. Both are quiet. All of them fall silent when the chaos comes to an end, for the exception of Bela, who lets out a barely audible sob.

Steadying himself once again, Dean pats down the front of his shirt. Inside his breast pocket he finds his lighter. The flame is measly in the black pit they stand in, but it’s something.

“We need a torch,” Dean says, realizing that the ones they came in with have now vanished. Presumably dropped in their frantic race. His voice sounds deafeningly loud.

He hears the ripping of fabric, and a bundle is shoved into his hand. “Where are you going to find a stick in here? There’s nothing.” Bela’s voice, in turn, is small.

“I don’t think we’re in the same place,” Dean explains, turning in place to catch a better glimpse of the room around him. “This is a chamber.”

“Hopefully not for torturing,” Sam says, trying to sound amused, but only succeeding to make himself sound like he’s ten again. “I don’t like this.”

“None of us do,” Eckhart says. He flicks on his own lighter. “What now?”

Dean walks around the room with both Sam and Castiel in tow. There’s nothing to aid their plan, but he does hear a crunch beneath his boot. Upon close inspection, he sees that it’s the carcass of a scarab. “We keep going,” he says, wanting to get as far from the bloodshed as possible.

“Where to?” This time it’s Castiel asking, calm and collected despite the shaking hands.

“I don’t know. We just keep moving.”

They walk, this time hurriedly, although clumsy. It’s quieter now, with only six sets of footsteps thumping across the stone floor.

The flames are useless against the vast darkness, and Eckhart eventually gives up on keeping his lighter aflame. Dean leads them all with nothing but his tiny light.

Castiel is holding his hand, and Dean figures that he probably feels safer doing so in the dark. The absence of a mob of self-righteous Nazis ready to get hostile may be a good reason as well.

Dean focuses on the gentle weight of him in his hand, the occasional squeeze of fingers. It’s one of the two reasons that keep him going.

It isn’t long before Dean is slowing his stride, having come face to face with what looks like a wall. But the impenetrable surface is the least of Dean’s worries. On both sides of them are statues, stoic and made of stone, but Dean can perceive their breathing. Those things are very much alive, and he isn’t the only one that knows this.

Sam and Castiel both groan in unison, huddling closer to Dean, as if he has a way to make those things stop.

As expected, the rest of the group doesn’t say a single word.

That is, until Bela screams.

Dean keeps still, even when Sam, Castiel, and the others turn towards Bela. He has no need to look in order to know what’s going on.

“Winchester!” Victor bellows, most likely for an explanation.

He waits still, until Bela’s voice retreats into the darkness, dragged away by clawed paws. Now, only ragged breaths and unbidden whimpers fill the vacuum of the room.

“Leverage,” Dean finally says. “She’ll be safer than we’ll be when we get into the next chamber.”

“Leverage for what?” comes Sam’s shaky voice, and Dean instinctively presses closer to his side.

“To make sure we see this through to the end.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Eckhart asks, his voice as steely as ever.

Dean smiles, although he’s sure no one can see it. “Don’t fight them.”

Before any other question can be asked, Dean’s lighter blows out, and he doesn’t get the chance to hear it hit the floor.

Claws as cold as ice bury themselves into his shoulder, yanking him away from the closeness of the group. The sound of a struggle echoes across the stone walls; grunts, and enraged and panicked outbursts of German and English.

Dean tries to catch his heel on something, to give him the momentum he needs to rip away from the force dragging him across the chamber. “Sam!” He can hear his brother putting up a fight.

“Dean!” he calls out, but the rest of his words sound faint, too far off to decipher.

“Sammy? _Sam!_ ” Frantic, Dean’s effort to break free multiplies as he lashes out. But throwing an arm over his head to claw the face off whatever is toying with them yields no result, as he’s only met with smooth and cold stone. “Shit.”

There really is no use in trying to fight these things, he knows it, said so himself, but the visceral need to protect Sam is overriding all sense of logical thinking. That is, until Dean notices that he hasn’t heard a peep out of Castiel. His blood runs cold.

“Cas?”

No reply comes.

“Cas?! Ca—mother _fucker!_ ” Riding out his rage, Dean fights harder, twisting his body into impossible way to be held, but the stone creature hold fast, their fingers digging so hard into Dean’s muscle that he cries out with pain.

Hopeless. Dean is hopeless, unable to do a damn thing. He should have fought harder, gone against the knowledge in his head, tried to make a run for it – so much he could have done rather than surrendering to the inevitable. He’s done it before. He and Sam have both done it before: spit in the face of fate and make it out alive. But he’s let his guard down. Dean’s let the anger and the self-loathing get a hold of him; became lethargic.

When Dean comes to again, head lolling and knees weak, he’s inside another chamber, one that isn’t a chamber at all. He’s standing in a cave that’s dimly illuminated by pools of blue water, narrow in width but endless in length. The rocky ceiling is low enough to be nearly suffocating. A steady drip-drip-drip of water is close to driving him mad.

He can’t move his limbs, or his back, and that frightens him for a moment before realizing that he’s still being held by the same creature that dragged him in here.

His neck hurts, and it’s while stretching it that Dean spots Sam all the way across the room, slumped forward, held up only by another of the creatures. A jackal is what Dean sees, made of polished black stone and gold accents. It all makes a sickening kind of sense.

“Sam,” Dean says, his voice but a dry croak. He has no idea how long he’s been out, but he’s thirsty, hungry. “Sam.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” Eckhart says.

Dean turns towards his voice, and sees him in the same position as the rest of them. He looks calm, determined, and Dean reluctantly admires his self-discipline. His shirt is torn in places, and he’s bleeding from his side, but he remains stock still.

Behind Eckhart, slumped, and in no better state than Sam, is Victor.

“You look pretty calm for a guy who’s lost his entire battalion in this little endeavor,” Dean says, tasting blood in his mouth. He spits it out.

Eckhart harrumphs. “My men knew the dangers, but they were driven by something greater than the promise of fame and riches.”

“Lot of good that did them.”

Nodding his head, stiffly, Eckhart concedes. “The Thule Society will honor their deaths.”

Dean narrows his eyes at the stone pedestal before them. “The what?”

“The Thule Society,” Eckhart says again, and chuckles. “Or did you think that the Men of Letters are the only keepers of the occult?”

Sagging against the stone jackal holding him, Dean sighs. He wonders why he never thought of it before. “Is John alive?”

Eckhart finally graces him with a look. “This is the first time you’ve asked about your father.”

“Well, is he?”

There’s a moment of silence before Eckhart replies. “I fear I do not know.”

The answer doesn’t surprise him. “Son of a bitch.”

“If you fear that we are holding him hostage, we are not. The contents of that letter were authentic, down to your grandfather’s signature.”

It’s Dean’s turn to give Eckhart a steady stare, mostly because that doesn’t make a lick of sense. “Then what…? I don’t get it.”

“The Thule Society and the Men of Letters have been working under a precarious truce, Herr Winchester. We both intended to find this artifact, although for different reasons, I’ll have you know.”

Dean mulls over the information, piecing all those stray thoughts regarding the letter and the journal together. The reason why none of it ever made sense is simply because none of them considered the possibility that these two organizations have been working together since the start. All this time, it has been nothing other than an elaborate scheme to get their hands on the artifact.

“If we are to get technical,” Eckhart says, “my company took far better care of your little triad than your precious organization.” He sounds smug. “It was your father who was supposed to be here, along with you and your brother. But he was adamant on not getting you involved. Look at what that got him. He’s missing, and now you and your brother must face this alone.”

Dean fumes.

“With the help of the librarian, that is,” Eckhart continues. “I must admit, I never expected for this to all fit together so perfectly. The Father, the Mother, and the Shooting Star. A slightly unorthodox trio, but it seems that the gods aren’t fastidious over who plays the roles.”

Dean doesn’t dignify him with a reply.

“I can’t blame you for being upset, Dean. You three have been abandoned by the very people who have placed you here in the first place. But it does serve to put things in perspective. Who is good, and who is evil?”

“You tortured Castiel, you threw me into a river for three days, and had I not gotten back when I did, you would’ve thrown my brother in.”

“All necessary evils.”

Indignation makes Dean struggle against the stony hold. “You torture people just because, you kill them because they’re different, you abuse your power and pretend to play God, and buddy, that makes you the evilest fucking scum to ever walk this planet.”

“What is more important to you?” Eckhart asks, looking Dean in the eye. “Your family or the world?”

“Don’t play that fucking card,” Dean spits. Despite Eckhart placing a persuasive argument, Dean isn’t buying it. “You still led us all into the slaughter.”

Silence rings deep and hollow, only the echo of Eckhart’s slow and charming smile remains. “Oh, no, mein freund. You led them here yourself.” Canting his head to the side, Eckhart sighs. “Remember that when you are taking your last breath, that it was you who brought little Sam and Herr Milton into the belly of the beast.”

A sense of searing rage lights up Dean’s gut, wickedly twisting it and lashing out with blindingly pure hatred.

He desperately clings to the hope that it’s a lie, but Dean knows, the truth of it marked in his bones, that Eckhart is right. All of this is his fault. He should have prevented Sam from making the trip, should have made Castiel stay in Munich. There is so much he could have done differently, but he didn’t. He went along, and near the end he gave up.

Dean chose incorrectly, and now they all face the consequences of his actions.

He refrains from yelling out in anger, instead he groans out his frustration, and heaves frantic breaths of air. Closing his eyes, Dean focuses on the dripping water. Anger will only cloud his judgment, and he needs to approach what comes next with a clear mind. Not that he remembers what is to come.

The sound of distant footsteps robs Dean’s attention.

“Like I said, your brother? I wouldn’t worry too much about him.”

Dean no longer has to ask what Eckhart means when he sees Castiel walk into the cave, two jackals flanking him. He wants to weep with relief, but the blank look on Castiel’s face is cause for alarm. There’s no fear, no worry; just cold, hard grit.

Trying to call out, Dean’s voice fails him. He does notice that Sam is awake now, staring at him with too-big eyes and a sad frown. Dean looks back to Castiel, and can’t decide which sight is more devastating.

“Cas? Hey! Cas, over here,” Dean manages to say, trying to catch his attention. “Don’t ignore me, man. You’re hurting my feelings.”

Castiel reacts to that by blinking, as if waking from a trance. Dean can see his chest shudder, his fingers flexing.

“You okay?”

Castiel turns his head towards Dean, blinking with confusion. “Dean?”

“The one and only.”

Dean watches him glance around the room, and give a nod in Sam’s direction.

“What’s going on?” Castiel says, refusing to move any more than he already has. Dean doesn’t blame him, not with those two beasts looming behind him.

“Stuck in a sticky situation,” Victor says.

Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. He half expected him to be dead already, and the idea had filled him with great joy. “Thanks for the input.”

The familiar sound of rumbling fills the tenebrous cave, making the ground beneath their feet quake and tremble. The sound of grinding stone puts Dean on edge, frantically searching the floor for any sign of flesh eating bugs. What happens next is unexpected.

Blue light erupts from the top of the stone pedestal, blinding in its first appearance, but dimming to something bearable in just the tick of a second. It twinkles like a star, softly spinning in place as it expands and contracts, as if stretching itself into something substantial. Within its light is the dim outline of an object, and Dean strains to see the artifact they’ve been searching for all this time, but it proves impossible to make out.

The amulet that hangs around Dean’s neck scorches his chest.

Dean is feeling overwhelmed by it. Part of him expected to find nothing, or maybe just a plain old stone tablet. When speaking of an artifact, no one ever really thinks about light.

“What is it?” Eckhart says, his calm façade finally failing him. “Well?”

No one answers him, too rapt to care.

“I want to see it,” he continues. “Release me right this instant, you useless piece of rock.”

Eckhart continues his arguing, but Dean’s eyes are still fixed on the light. It pulses with a sense of familiarity, something primal and intimate that reminds Dean of a certain touch. Not entirely Castiel’s, but something like it. It holds the sense of security that had kept Dean running through the floor of the Nile, instead of collapsing and giving into the serpents.

He’s snapped out of his reverie when the corner of his eye catches a glimpse of Eckhart, quickly walking across the cave to the pedestal.

Dean blinks, thrown off as to how that’s possible, since the jackal is still standing in its spot. Its arms are at its side now, as if it had simply let Eckhart go. Tentatively, Dean twists his upper body, but his own guard hasn’t moved an inch.

The two that flank Castiel aren’t even touching him.

A sense of déjà vu floods Dean’s mind, but he can’t put a finger on it. Something that he’s supposed to know but has forgotten. He scours through his head, searching for anything, but the only thing he knows is that Eckhart shouldn’t be approaching the stone pedestal.

“Eckhart, don’t touch it,” Dean says, hoping he sounds urgent enough.

Eckhart doesn’t listen.

“You aren’t meant for it,” he pushes on, struggling once more against the stone hands. “If you touch it, you’re gonna die, and nothing you did will be worth anything! Goddammit, man!”

Still, Dean’s warning falls on deaf ears.

Deep down, Dean has always known that this would be Eckhart’s end. He had seen it when he stood before Anubis, but the memory wisps away like smoke. Dean had seen everybody’s death, but those too escape him like misty dreams.

Dean clenches his jaw when Eckhart ascends the spiral steps of the pedestal, hand in front of his eyes to shield them from the light. The man is entranced, grinning from ear to ear as he approaches the very top.

Eckhart lowers his hands, ready to take the artifact, and Dean can see his mouth moving, speaking words no one will ever know. He chuckles, eyes glistening, and it all comes to an abrupt culmination the moment his hands land within the glowing light.

Dean nearly vomits at the scream, one unlike anything he has heard before.

The sizzle, the stench of burnt flesh makes Sam retch, and Dean heave.

The hellish noise continues, and the consummation of a human body will forever haunt Dean’s waking moments. A wet plop makes him gag again, his nose running, and eyes stinging with inhuman terror.

At the sound of clattering, Dean looks up, just in time to see Eckhart’s skeleton rattle and clack onto the ground with absolute finality.

Only the drip-drop-drip of water fills the cave, along with Sam’s sickened groans.

Dean is left trembling on the spot. There is no terror, just eerie blankness and the feeling of acceptance.

His eyes land on Castiel, who hasn’t moved an inch. Only, his eyes are wider than Dean has ever seen them, and his hands clench and unclench by his side. He looks absolutely terrified, and the instant he leans back just an inch, the jackals at his back step closer.

The understanding of what will happen next hits Dean hard. “ _No!_ Don’t you fucking _dare!_ ” He fights with renewed vigor, violent distress helping him twist and bend enough for the jackal to put up a struggle. But he doesn’t budge, it’s not possible.

Dean’s delivered them to their doom, and now he’ll have to stomach it.

“Fucking— _hell_ , Cas! Don’t let them! _Don’t you fucking let them!_ ”

Castiel turns frantic eyes to him, but then, he finally realizes what will happen, and it only serves to sicken Dean far more.

“You don’t have to go through with this! We’ll find a way back, Cas, come on. Come on, man!” Dean thrashes, cold hollowness rendering him helpless. “Cas, please, don’t do it. _Please._ ”

Castiel turns back towards the pedestal, his eyes softening in its glow.

“Cas,” and this time it’s Sam who calls him. “We’ll get Bela, find a way to get out of here. Go down swingin’ if we have to.” Sam too is struggling to get loose. “You don’t have to go through with this.”

“Aren’t I the conduit?” Castiel says, voice hushed. “It wouldn’t hurt me if I’m meant for it.”

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean hisses. He’s stopped his thrashing, and the only thing that keeps him from falling to his knees is the sentient statue holding him. “Don’t you get it? It’s over. Eckhart’s dead, there’s no reason to take it. It’s safe.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” He sounds distant, dreamlike as he takes his first steps forward. “You should hear it.”

“Cas—”

“I can wield it. Stop the war.”

“Castiel!”

“We can win.”

“You stupid sonuvabitch,” Dean whispers to himself. This isn’t much different from facing a tank head-on. “Don’t you dare leave me alone. Don’t you _dare_.”

Castiel is well out of hearing range, mounting the first steps towards the glowing light. He’s bruised and bloody, his hair a wreck, and Dean longs to at least tend to his wounds before he leaves. There’s nothing he can do now. Nothing.

Sam is still trying to convince him, shouting out words that Dean can’t decipher. He’s too far gone with anger and grief.

“Would you look at him go?”

Dean’s head snaps up, but not to look at Castiel. His blood scorches in his veins at the sound of Victor and his sickly tender voice. As if Castiel was his, as if he is proud to see him walking up to certain death.

“You should have gone instead,” Dean snarls through his teeth.

Victor chuckles. “I know what would have happened if I did. May I remind you that the angel was under my wing for nearly a week? The things we discussed…”

His words taste like filth in Dean’s mouth. Dean lets himself focus on Sam’s pleas.

Castiel already stands at the top of the pedestal, looking down at the artifact that pulses the closer his hands get. His touch is hesitant, pulling away when he gets too close, the light too bright. There’s peace on his features, and Sam eventually falls quiet. They all do.

They wait.

Dean wants to crawl out of his skin.

But nothing happens when Castiel finally wraps his hand over the artifact, within the light. All remains calm, his body doesn’t combust, and a slow smile crawls across his mouth.

And it’s a smile Dean wishes to have never witnessed.

Twisted and wrong in its gentleness, Dean instantly knows that Castiel has fulfilled his part as the conduit, but whatever needed to use him, has no intention of leaving.

Flexing his hands in front of his face, Castiel sighs, looking deeply satisfied with his achievement. The light before him has vanished, and in its place stands what looks like an ivory lotus.

The stone guardians finally release Dean, Sam, and Victor.

Castiel places a hand to his chest, looks himself over with a sense of wonder and appreciation. His movements are positively alien; Dean failing to find another way to explain it. His eyes are wide, face blank when he turns to look across the cave.

Dean startles when Sam grabs his arm, shaking him out of his stupor.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Victor says, but there’s no fight left in Dean to retort. “His glory will suffer no fool who refuses to bow before him.”

Head bowed, Victor kneels over the damp cave floor.

Dean stumbles half a step away, face contorted into an emotion of confused fury. Lord help him, because all he wants to do is leave his boot print across Victor’s face. Sam pulls him away, however, with a hint of urgency.

Castiel saunters down the spiral staircase, his gait whimsical yet supercilious. He deposits the lotus into his shirt pocket, and tucks his hands behind his back. Discreet smile in place, Castiel crosses the distance between the pedestal and the area where they’re currently huddled.

He stops mere inches from Victor, who inclines himself further.

Opening his mouth, the words that come are unlike anything Dean has ever heard. A distant twinge inside of him tells Dean that it’s the same language from the journal’s runes, but it makes it no less awesome. This creature is satisfied at the sight of being worshipped, and Dean feels violently ill once more.

Castiel’s fingers land atop of Victor’s head, perhaps as a blessing, before falling away. He turns to Dean and Sam then, and the fear is nearly paralyzing.

Friend, lover, whatever—Dean isn’t bowing to anyone or anything. He’s had enough of sick games and crafty manipulations.

“Dean,” Castiel says, in the tenderest fashion Dean has ever heard. It makes his hair stand on end. “I want to thank you for bringing me this far, my friend. You as well, Sam.” Sam’s hand tightens on Dean’s bicep.

“For centuries I have awaited this moment,” Castiel’s voice resembles melted gold. “Had it not been for the two of you…I would have been trapped for several more.” There’s amusement in his words, a hint of companionship Dean knows they haven’t earned.

“Glad to have helped,” Dean says, trying hard not to sound sarcastic. “Can we have Cas back?”

Blue eyes blink, confused. He looks down at his hands, flexes his longer fingers. “This man’s blood is special. The blood of kings flows through him.” He meets Dean’s eyes. “Who else if not him?”

The implications slide home, leaving Dean breathless. “You can’t.”

Castiel offers a condescending smile, but as he stretches out his hand to touch Dean’s cheek, Dean pulls away. Smile falling, he lets his hand come away. “Fret not, for you have had him, and I shall have you.”

“Just who the fuck do you think you are?”

Castiel opens his mouth to retort, but stops at mid-breath. His lifts his head, as if listening for something, and grins once he finds what he’s looking for.

He takes a step back when the floor begins to shake.

“I am Set,” he announces, voice soft with tenderness. “And I have come to claim my throne.”

Beside Dean, Sam hisses out a horrified “Shit”.

“Only those worthy will survive my armies,” Castiel continues, turning away towards the pedestal. “I bid you the luck of the gods, the blessing of Ra, and the wisdom of Thoth. If you live, come to me and ascend as the holy triad. If you don’t….do send Anubis my kindest regards. He and I have much to talk about.”

Dean takes one agitated step forward, but Sam pulls him back. “Dean, don’t. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“I don’t give a shit. I want that asshole out of him right—” Dean’s words die at mid-sentence, because one look around him guarantees that he’s no longer in the same cave as before. Castiel is gone.

❖

Sam whips around at the sudden feeling of being watched.

He’s still clinging to Dean’s sleeve, fearing for both their lives before the monster wearing Castiel’s face. Of all artifacts, of all gods, the idea of Set, god of chaos, being at ground zero had never crossed Sam’s mind.

But that fear is second in place, now that they are elsewhere, with Victor slowly uncoiling himself from the groveling position. They aren’t alone, and the darkness that surrounds him is moving in mass, like a poked anthill.

“Dean, snap out of it,” he says, shaking him still. The situation is about to get far worse than it already is, and Sam can’t risk having Dean indisposed at such a crucial time. “You heard him, it’s possible to make it out alive.”

“What then, huh, Sam? What happens when he tries to make us ‘ascend’?” Dean pulls out of Sam’s grasp, hands on his knees. He looks sick.

“You accept the miracle,” Victor says, trying to make himself sound important.

“We’ll make it up as we go, okay?” Sam offers instead, making Dean face him rather than punch Victor.

The unsheathing of blades forces Sam to shut his eyes for just a moment, if only to imagine that he is elsewhere. He can’t say what rests within the animated darkness, only that whatever it is wants them dead. It intends to test them, push them past the point of breaking, and if they succeed, only more pain and suffering ensures in the afterlife.

“What are those things?” Victor says.

“Hopefully? Your demise,” Dean says. Humor aside, he’s drawing out his gun, and Sam follows suit.

There isn’t much to see, but the barking and snarling is enough to give it away. Sam catches glimpses, tiny flashes of gold in a wall of black, a glint of silver blades.

He and Dean stand back to back, guns trained at their surroundings, but nothing in particular. They know they’re surrounded, and Sam is willing to bet that they’re outnumbered. A total of five handguns won’t be enough take down an entire legion of sentient darkness.

“This is bad,” Sam grumbles. He hears Dean’s grunt of agreement right behind him.

A gunshot goes off, startling him out of the anxious suspense.

Victor, losing his nerve, is firing at random.

“What the hell is he doing?” Dean shouts over the growing hum.

Sam cocks his gun when he makes up his mind about pulling Victor back, but the advancing of the mass begins just then, riled up by Victor’s gunfire.

He isn’t at all surprised when he realizes that the army is composed solely of the same guards that had held him and Dean captive in the previous room. The only difference being that rather than having skin made of stone, only their faces are made of the shiny onyx material; some of them even carry ceremonial crowns. The rest of their body, adorned with golden bracelets and shendyts, is decrepit and rotting. It smells of putrefaction.

“Are those… _mummies?_ ” Sam didn’t intend to voice the question aloud, because it is far too ridiculous an idea.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Dean says. “Army of the undead. Why’d I ever expect otherwise?”

“You think bullets will put them down?”

Dean snorts. “Fat chance, but what other choice do we have?”

Sam’s back melds to Dean’s when the army closes in. “Dean, if you die, I’ll find you and kick your ass.”

“Likewise, Sammy. Likewise.”

Sam tries to think a dozen thoughts a second, looking for a way to survive the swarm of beings surrounding them. The objective isn’t to kill them. Like Set mentioned, it’s to survive. And they can’t die if they aren’t hit.

The cave walls are sheer and unblemished, there is no elevated platform for them to climb up on, and Sam only has half a round of bullets left. Chances of survival are slim.

He’s startled when Dean’s gun goes off twice in a row, and instinct has him turning around to see what’s going on. Sam’s gut clenches when his brother lunges forward, towards the two humanoid jackals who have just hit the floor. But instead of diving headfirst into the mob, as Sam expected, Dean grabs their scythes and quickly retreats.

Sam catches the bronze weapon when Dean throws it to him.

Trust Dean to do something reckless like that, but now they’re both armed. Sam can’t help but smirk.

“What about me?” Victor snaps, face turning stormy. “I’m part of this too!”

“Shoot for the leg,” Dean instructs him. “It probably won’t kill it, but it’ll give you enough time to grab its scythe.”

One can also trust Dean to be honest when it counts. Sam would spend time admiring the goodness that lies deep within his brother, not letting a man go down without a fight, but a jackal charges at him.

Sam meets it half way across the floor, ducking at just the right moment to slice the scythe against its knees. The guard collapses, Sam pins it, and drives the rusted blade through its throat. He doesn’t pull away until the head rolls to its side, detached from its body.

Sam quickly steps back to regroup, just as Dean whistles. “Color me impressed.”

“Okay, so, head,” Sam says, heaving like a bull. Adrenaline is finally pumping him up, making him feel like he can take on the entire army by himself. “Save your ammo until you really need it.” The information is more for Victor than for Dean.

Dean goes in again, taking out two more jackals and picking up an extra scythe. He spins them by his side, looking smug. Sam rolls his eyes and mutters, “Show off.”

They come in groups of two while the others linger in the background, barking and trilling, waiting for their turn. The hum grows louder, its sole existence is to distract them, drive them crazy, but Sam and Dean are both too sharp to care. The noise gets pushed to the back of their minds.

Dean picks them off easily with a smooth sense of hack and slash that carries the smallest hint of skill. It’s impressive to watch, and Sam finds himself thinking that maybe Dean has done this before. Not to an army of mummies, but Sam remembers Dean’s stories of encountering grave robbers hell-bent on putting him six feet under. Dean has experience.

That’s not to say that Sam can’t hold his own.

Now, they come in threes.

Sam keeps a tempo in his head, a beat of _step, hit, step, step, hack, kick, slice_. It flows like second nature, his muscles moving in tandem to a perfect rhythm he’s surprised he can even perform.

_Three down, forty-three seconds._

There’s muck on his face and shirt, the smell of rot worsening so close to his nose, but all of that doesn’t matter. He’s on a roll, he hasn’t been hit, and he’s beginning to feel like they will be able to get through this.

He turns to look at Dean, show off how well he’s doing, only to see his brother neck deep in jackals. But he’s still going, face also smeared with gunk and ancient fluids. Sam slowly fights his way to him.

In a brief moment of respite, Sam looks for Victor, but he’s nowhere to be seen. His gunshots, despite being advised to save the bullets, have ceased.

The mummified guardians are coming in groups of five now, and it’s getting harder to keep up. Sam’s muscles ache regardless of the adrenaline rush that keeps him going, and his movements are beginning to slow down. He pushes himself to keep going, to not be swallowed by the swarm, but it’s becoming harder and harder to keep fighting.

Sam searches above the heads of the jackals for any sight of Dean. Sam eventually finds him, holding Victor by the neck.

He looks away before his brother can even finish lifting his blade.

❖

Through his eyes he can see a path illuminated by pale blue light in an otherwise dark cavern. He can hear the drip-drop-drip of water, and smell the faint scent of flowers.

Far too long; for far too long has he been locked away within a plane of absence, with nothing but the weak hum of existence pulsing in the endless beyond. The human realm, however tiny and insignificant, has its moments. It delivers to primal senses, allowing him to taste, smell, see, hear, and touch things he would otherwise not pay attention to. This universe is incomprehensible in its tiny state of being.

Within him, the human fights. Arduously at first, spitting words that have little meaning. Time has calmed him, and only small hiccups remain, broken and sad. Placing a hand to his chest, Set calls to Castiel with genuine pity. The human’s soul recoils.

“Your kind was once great,” Set says, running a hand across the stubble on his jaw. “You were once giants, and the slaves feared you.” Going through the memories and thoughts of his conduit, he frowns. “And now you’re just a keeper of words. Not a single ounce of that magnificence remains. Only human.”

Castiel steps further back into his mind.

“Don’t be shy, little one. What we’re about to do will benefit all of us.” Set stands before a solid wall, runs his finger in the pattern of a hawk, a beast, an ankh, and lastly, a circle.

The wall opens into a valley, long rolling and dry with age. Browned blades of grass sway to and fro, caressing the flowers with soothing whispers. A permanently setting sun lingers over the horizon, bathing the endless expanse in gold.

“Brother!” Set calls out, hands spread out in a welcoming gesture. “Where are you?”

Nothing but the grass stirs.

“Will you forsake me once more?” Lowering his arms, Set sighs. “I only wish to see you.”

“The last time you said that, my wife was still recovering the pieces of my corpse from the river.”

Set turns, eyes wide and smile wider at the sight of his brother.

Clad in regal black robes, Osiris lifts his head. “Your banishment is eternal.” Dark eyes narrow dangerously. “Why are you here?”

“Simply to see you,” Set says, and inches forward to place a hand over his brother’s shoulder. Osiris pulls away before there is any contact. “You don’t believe me.”

“You possess a human who had no knowledge of your venture, condemn his loved ones to death, and now you stand before me weaving lies,” Osiris says, tone smooth and thunderous.

Castiel’s soul stirs.

“My possession is just.”

“Your possession is cruel and childish.” Osiris turns on his heels, robes flowing with the crisp breeze. He keeps his hands clasped in front of him. “Your intentions useless, for the age of the gods have long come to end. Horus no longer holds the throne, none of us do. We simply play our parts in this new world.”

Set’s face twists into a scowl. “You lie.”

“Ask the human.”

Set pushes in rather than asking, cards through the thoughts and memories that aren’t his own. Amidst the fictitious stories and human fears, he finds knowledge of events. Set sees the barbaric nature of humanity, so similar to the times in which Osiris had taught them the wills of life. The regression fills him with ire. The gods themselves granted humanity so much, for what?

“And you allowed this?” he bellows, before taking a step back. The anger, although present, isn’t entirely his own. “Osiris!”

“Among the realms and all of the worlds, these humans have adopted the idea of ‘free will’, and there is no way to stop them. In fact, as you can see, they have rendered us obsolete with their thoughts alone. They truly are a race to be admired, despite their faults.”

The brothers walk across the fields, until an ibis taps the ground. They are now within the walls of a vast cavern, the sounds of a skirmish bleeding through the stones. Set recognizes this place as Osiris’ throne room.

Along the left wall sits Isis and Horus, and on the right sits Thoth and Ma’at.

Above the stone throne, towering high above all of them, sits Anubis, with his mighty feet on either side of Osiris’ throne.

Head held high, Set pays them no heed, even when their lifeless eyes descend upon him.

“You may rejoin us, brother,” Osiris says, lifting the hem of his robes as he ascends to his seat. “But an existence here will be no better than the void.”

“We can retake our place,” Set reasons, stopping when a weighing scale materializes before him. “Rally our forces.”

“So you may be crowned rightful king?” The melodious voice comes from Isis, but she doesn’t move. Not her mouth, or eyes—nothing. She’s as good as dead, sitting on the stone bench of the throne room.

“Clearly anything is better than this,” Set says, gesturing towards the lifeless room.

“You may choose between staying with us, or returning to the void,” Osiris says, his word final.

“How come you’re still sentient, brother? How come Anubis sits above you?”

Osiris tips his head to the side, nodding slowly. “There is still balance within the universe. The human realm may be free, but the afterlife still belongs to us. We are the keepers.”

“I want to be a keeper as well.” Within his head, the human tells him to ‘act like a god and stop whining’.

Set hisses in anger when Osiris chuckles, knowing very well that he’s heard the exchange.

“Brother—”

“Choose, or I shall choose for you,” Osiris says, coolly. “Either way you shall release the human.”

Castiel twists inside of him, thrashing out like a caged animal.

Set digs his nails into the palm of his hands. “He’ll die,” he spits out with manic glee.

“Then so be it, but you will ride him no longer.”

“No.”

“Set…”

“I said _no!_ ”

Heaving an impatient sigh, Osiris nods. “Very well,” and snaps his fingers.

❖

When Castiel comes to, he falls to his knees with exhaustion. His body aches and groans, pitifully exhausted once Set is locked away somewhere within him. He can feel it, that powerful force that pushes and pulls with tremendous strength.

Castiel wheezes, hand clutching his stomach as he pushes himself up on his feet. The urge to vomit is overwhelming.

“Castiel,” Osiris says, and his voice booms far fiercer than what he had heard filtered through Set. It sounds like bells and the crunching of broken glass.

“Um,” is all he can say. He looks around to the stone gods, all of them long-dead but still present. The whole ordeal is terrifying.

“I must inform you that my brother’s words are law in the matters of abandoning his conduit,” he continues, tapping a staff that seems to have appeared from thin air. “You voluntarily took him in.”

Looking down at his feet, Castiel slowly exhales. The lack of knowledge regarding the artifact will perhaps be of little importance. Even if the information regarding its origins had been withheld, Castiel had walked up that pedestal, and took the ivory lotus of his own volition. Dean had even told him the stakes in a fit of power-induced madness.

“I understand,” Castiel says. He clenches his fists by his side. “I will fully accept the consequences of my actions.”

Inside of him, Set feels insulted. A particularly hard snap has Castiel gagging, but he sucks it up, swallows the bile forming at the bottom of his throat.

Osiris’ stare is steady, as cold as the stone deities witnessing the events. His thumb caresses the golden staff, the ankh at the very top slowly spinning and reflecting the light from the blue pools.

He sits back, crosses his legs in a very Dean-like manner. Castiel’s chest aches at the thought.

Osiris clears his throat. “As judge, it is my duty to decide whether or not your souls are worthy of paradise.” Castiel’s stomach trembles at what he’s insinuating; the thought made certain when Osiris nods his head. “Death is inevitable. I can only deliver just judgment.”

A thunderous voice speaks in a language that hurts Castiel’s ears, so much that he has to clap his palms over them to block it out. Fear, dread, and finality suddenly fills Castiel’s soul—and within, Set laughs.

Osiris’ pleasant demeanor shifts into something stoic and impassive. The air itself feels charged, heavy, mournful. Something has changed, and before Castiel can wonder what, he’s already certain as to what it is. Emptiness and misery manifests within his heart. 

This time, he falls to his knees with nothing but grief.

“Castiel Milton, it is now your onus to serve as advocate to both souls, as well as your own.”

Arms wrapped around his middle, Castiel heaves desperately for air. Sam and Dean are dead, and now he must serve as their lawyer. The notion is appalling.

The staff hits the ground like a gavel, prompting him to look up.

“You will present one deed, just one, for each,” Osiris says, and with a wave of his hand, a woman appears.

Unlike the other gods, she isn’t made of stone. Her skin is the color of olives, her hair dark and thick where it rests over her shoulders. She’s dressed in silk, and her bare feet make no sound as she crosses a blue puddle. On her head, pinned by a gold circlet, are three ostrich feathers.

Castiel watches her through teary eyes, as she plucks the rich feathers and places them over one side of the scale.

She then takes a step back, with her hands at her sides.

Easing back onto his calves, Castiel tells Set to shut up.

One deed.

One deed for Sam and another for Dean; one that will grant them entrance into the land of rest. It’s a hard thing to do for someone who has only known the Winchesters for a handful of weeks.

Castiel thinks.

He thinks back to that night at the bar in Munich, when he and Dean had been two lonely strangers in the night, sharing stories over drinks.

Dean had told him about Sam, his head a little fuzzy from the whiskey. He had spoken like a proud parent, boasted tiny insignificant details about his little brother. The one time a teenage Sam climbed the neighbor’s tree to rescue a cat, and the one cruel winter when Sam had stopped on his way to university to offer his coffee to a gentleman at the bus stop.

Sam, who gave Dean the opportunity to become _someone_ when the rest of their family had gone their separate ways. Selfless, generous, and kind. A good friend to Castiel, a surrogate brother.

There is no possible way to choose one, so Castiel focuses on Dean instead.

The mere thought sends his heart fluttering within his chest. Rude, big headed, and crude, maybe, but Dean is the epitome of courage and good will. A man worth looking up to; a man worth saving. He had given his all for his brother, tended to Castiel’s wounds with tenderness and love.

Dean so loved the world that he took it upon his shoulders, defended it until the very end of his life.

_They won._

Castiel looks up at the woman, his throat tight. His smile is wet with his own tears.

Only one deed, but who can create a god by telling of just one deed?

“I don’t believe that’s possible,” Castiel finally says, pushing himself up onto his feet again. He takes a deep breath, works out the knots on his neck before walking towards the scale.

Osiris lifts his head, eyes steady on him.

What can he tell about the men who saved the world? Isn’t that enough?

Castiel decides it isn’t.

“Place your heart on the scale,” Osiris says.

The woman looks from Castiel to Osiris, and then back to Castiel. She bows her head, and lifts a hand to gesture at the golden scale.

Castiel hesitates, unsure of what to do. Sure enough, there’s a live, beating heart clasped within his hands, but one heart for three feathers won’t certainly be enough to even out the balance, much less tip it in his favor.

The soft beating fills him with peace, and the understanding that he too is dead comes with a muted shock, however brief. Set is no longer present. Another stone statue joins Thoth’s side.

There’s serenity within Castiel, calm acceptance. This is the end of his journey, and maybe it won’t be so terribly bad. Perhaps, if his heart is enough to balance the feathers, he’ll see the Winchesters on the other side.

Drinking in one more breath, Castiel places his heart over the golden pan, and watches.


	13. Chapter 13

It’s another cold evening in Munich, forcing them to wrap up in their coats and hats as they cross the tarmac. The night is still young, but the world is dark.

Dean can’t shake off the somberness.

Four days ago they woke up on Giza’s shores, at the foot of the pyramids. 

Twelve hours later they came to again on hospital cots, with a gramophone in the background playing Vera Lynn. Portia and Charlie were both cooing, lavishing the three of them with hot chocolate, hearty food, and long hours of sleep.

Bela had been there too, brought them all flowers before disappearing again. By their beds she left three nondescript sacks filled with gems and gold.

It also turned out that Charlie has a lady friend who goes by the name of Gilda. While Castiel and the Winchesters gallivanted through Egypt in search of the artifact, Gilda, who is a private of the Underground Intelligence Bureau for the Allied Forces, had taken on the task of intercepting enemy communications. Her intention: to catalogue prisoners of war.

An untraceable telegram alerted her that one John Winchester is, in fact, very much alive, but his location will not be disclosed.

Dean had taken the news with a sigh of relief. Anger and disappointment could wait another week or two.

For four days, Dean, Sam and Castiel sat in silence. None of them discussed the events that had transpired, no one asked about the rest of the camp. Neither of them could really stand the sight of each other, until Dean finally took that step and held Castiel’s hand just last night.

The gears jumped-started again, and the machine was set in motion.

This morning they had arrived in Munich. They ate, they drank, they sang war songs in the pub; but now, they’re here.

Now, in the middle of the storm, they say their goodbyes. Only, there isn’t much to say.

Sam shakes Castiel’s hand for longer than necessary, and Castiel places his free hand over Sam’s. “Don’t be strangers,” Sam says, with a gentle smile that speaks of fondness. “I expect letters at least every other month. Every other week once the war is over.”

Castiel nods his head, squeezes Sam’s hand. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s been a pleasure serving with you, Sam.”

It takes Sam another moment to pull away, tugging his coat closer to himself, and heading for the plane.

Dean isn’t looking forward to the trip home.

He stands a fair distance from Castiel, watching as he and his brother share their last goodbyes. It’s still not the time for anger, but it’s the perfect opportunity for sorrow. The cold wind that whips at his coat cannot compare to the coldness inside his heart. After all that has occurred, after all the hushed confessions and life-changing leaps—Castiel is saying goodbye.

Only when Sam has boarded does Dean cross the muddied tarmac, eyes trained on a soaked Castiel.

 _Cas._ Starry-eyed Castiel. The gorgeous librarian of Dean’s fantasies. The love of Dean’s life.

Cassie had been the one to say goodbye to Dean, Dean had said goodbye to Lisa. Dean doesn’t want to say goodbye to Castiel. It’s too final, too absolute. He can’t really see a life where Castiel isn’t there each day, frowning at him, huffing in annoyance, being a smartass, touching the back of his hand.

Dean holds it together. He steels himself, clenches his fists inside his pockets, smirks easily when he comes to stand in front of him. But it all washes away with the rain when Castiel smiles. He’s yet to get himself another pair of glasses.

Dean intended to be tough, be casual, but he can’t help himself when a hand slips out of his pocket and cups Castiel’s cheek. The kiss that they share knocks both their fedoras to the ground.

“Come with me, Cas,” Dean says when he pulls away, nose to nose. “Sam’ll get you settled in the university. Land you a job.”

Castiel’s laugh is cracked with emotion, and a knot instantly forms in Dean’s throat.

“There’s still so much I have to do,” Castiel confides. “The library is still in ruins; Aaron needs a safe place to stay.” He seals another kiss to Dean’s mouth. “There’s so much I want to see,” he says, almost a whisper.

Now Dean has to deal with the consequences. He introduced Castiel to the world, and who is he to hold him back? Dean has seen and conquered; now it’s Castiel’s turn.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Dean says, touching his forehead to Castiel’s.

Nodding, Castiel also brings up a hand to card through Dean’s hair. “We’ll meet again,” he says, words brimming with so much adoration Dean could cling to him forever and never let go. “I promise.”

Dean’s thumb traces the sharp cheekbone, before hooking his finger beneath Castiel’s jaw and tipping his head upward. “I’m holding you to that, kid.”

With one more kiss, Dean finally steps back.

He pries his eyes away from Castiel’s silhouette, standing against the dark night.

Heaven only knows when they will be able to stand together once again, Dean thinks, walking up the rolling stairs. But one thing's for certain, the memories will always be poignant. Dean will always hold Castiel close to his heart.

And they’ll always have Cairo.


End file.
